


Tremors

by MissScorp



Series: Tale of Two Dopes [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Bit of post Alone Time, Bright is Bright, Coping, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family, Fear, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Goes through 1x11, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Mental Anguish, PTSD, Paranoia, Slow Burn, hints of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 48,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: They aren't something he can predict or control. They happen during moments of stress, fear or anxiety. They come when he least expects them and when he doesn't want them. All he can do when the tremors start is hide his hands so nobody can see just how badly they're shaking.





	1. Chapter 1

He didn't know what to do with his quaking hands so he shoved them between his knees. As much to stop them from shaking as to hide them from Gil and Dani.

Not that it helped control the violent tremors.

No, those got progressively worse with every second that ticked by on the clock.

If Malcolm was being honest, _really_ honest, he'd admit nothing stopped the tremors. Not once they got started, anyway. Even the handful of anxiety meds he swallowed on a daily basis only worked to keep them at bay for a small amount of time. _They don't do much to quiet the noise inside my head, either_.

He learned to live with the white static, though. The dark things that taunted him, laughed at him, shouted obscenities at him were a comfort to him.

They reminded him he was real.

He existed.

He had a purpose in this world.

A gift.

He chose his line of work for that very reason. To separate himself from Martin Whitly. From what he had done as the Surgeon. He took the things he learned and used them to _help _people, not harm them as his father had done.

Ainsley, as well as their mother, frequently expressed her desire for him to give up his obsession with murder and murderers. To do something else with his life. Something that didn't connect him with Martin Whitly in any way. He accepted her concern, understood it even. That's why he didn't get angry with her whenever she lectured him about being too focused or obsessed.

Ainsley, as much as their mother, didn't understand how working on homicide investigations helped him more than hindered him. They had no idea the voices tended to quiet down while he was investigating a crime scene. The voices were mostly background noise while he worked for the FBI. They had, he was forced to admit, come back louder and more persistent than ever since his firing.

_No_, Malcolm corrected as Gil took a seat beside him. _They returned after seeing my father for the first time in ten years. _

He managed to keep the voices mostly under control while helping Gil and the team to solve a murder. Working cases was about the closest he came to feeling _normal_.

To being sane.

_Human_.

Granted, he took more risks than was necessary while searching for a suspect. He didn't call or wait for backup. He rushed into situations that frequently saw him needing to seek medical attention afterwards. Maybe, just _maybe_ his superiors at the Bureau had a bit of reason for concern about his behavior. Punching that sheriff, while still totally justified, wasn't acceptable behavior from an FBI agent. That still didn't warrant their firing him as they did. _Or justifying it by using an incorrect diagnosis of my behavior. _

Profiling was what he knew.

Piecing together puzzle pieces, figuring out what was missing, what didn't make sense, seeing the how and why was the one thing he was actually _good_ at.

That he didn't question or doubt.

Not that it helped him with controlling his tremors.

No, he had to deal with those even while working cases.

His methods for coping with the issue varied based on how bad they were and who he was with at the time. Sticking his hands in his pockets, curling and uncurling his fingers, wrapping them around a cup, file or book, and squeezing the stress ball he kept in his pocket were a few of his go to methods for dealing with his tremors.

Keeping his hands in motion also tended to help with the more violent episodes. Gesturing wildly p served to keep people from seeing just how badly his hands twitched and jerked. The less people saw, the less he was required to explain. Prevaricating, deflecting, deceiving was easy with strangers. People saw and heard what they wanted. A quip about too much caffeine or sugar typically satisfied most people.

When it came to his mother and sister? Gil?

That didn't work.

They saw through his excuses, knew them for what they were. Hiding the tremors was also more difficult when he found himself sitting in a crowded hospital lounge, waiting for a doctor to come and tell him whether the one person to care for him outside of his mother, sister, and Gil was going to survive their hellish ordeal or not.

"Hey, kid." Gil set a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention away from his hands, and from the fear and anxiety doing jumping jacks in his stomach. He lifted his eyes to Gil's warm ones. "She's gonna be okay. The doctors said you found her and got her to help in plenty of time."

_Time_. He found her in time. _Just as she said I would_. Sorcha's faith and trust in him didn't bring Malcolm any sort of comfort whatsoever. If anything, it accomplished the exact opposite. Nervous energy traveled through his hands, into his wrists, and rattled up into his elbows. Gil must have sensed his feelings because he squeezed his shoulder.

"You were there for her when she needed you, Bright."

There for her.

He was there for her.

What if he hadn't been, though?

That question played over and over through his mind as paramedics pushed a stretcher by. It was quickly joined by others.

What if he hadn't been home when that courier tried to deliver Sorcha's package?

What if he hadn't managed to figure out what was going on from the clues she provided him?

What if he hadn't figured out that the man they were after was her boyfriend, Robert?

What if he hadn't figured out Robert was bringing his victims to his former nightclub?

What if he hadn't been there for her as she'd been there for him the dozens of times where he almost took his own life?

_She'd be dead is what she'd be_.

Fear wrapped itself around his throat and cinched tight as that damning thought set the dark things inside his head to laughing and jeering.

His heart pounded; his blood pumped.

His breath came in short, shallow pants. His vision frayed at the corners. He needed to get out of there but couldn't. Not with so many people milling around. He might be able to fend off those in the waiting area with stammered apologies and half-baked reasons for his agitation. Many of them were here for the same reason: someone they loved or cared about was being treated by hospital staff.

The reporters outside the hospital with their camera crews and microphones would be more difficult for him to avoid. They'd chase after him, shouting their questions, and expecting him to stop and answer. Especially his sister, who had already sent him over twenty text messages in the last hour asking — no, demanding, an exclusive.

Something he couldn't give her.

Not when Sorcha was part of that exclusive.

He had to protect her. Even from Ainsley. At least until she was capable of deflecting these things for herself. Malcolm ordered himself to calm down. To focus. Losing it wouldn't help Sorcha.

And it'd only alert Gil and Dani to how bad off he was.

Even as Malcolm told himself to breathe, slow and steady, the air wheezed in his lungs, clogged there until he was almost gulping for it. Any moment he thought he might pass out from the lack of oxygen.

"How'd you know she was gonna be his next victim?"

Malcolm barely heard Dani through the dull roaring filling his ears. Sweat ran cold and clammy over his skin, and he smelled his own fear. He couldn't avoid Dani's question, though. Not without raising her suspicions up more than they already were. What to say, though? His only friend in the world dating a serial killer seemed like a conversation to have when they weren't sitting in a crowded waiting room.

"She told me."

"Told you?" Surprise and a bit of doubt coated Dani's voice. Not that Malcolm could blame her. He wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't the one who received the package. "How'd she know she was gonna end up as his next victim?"

That, though, wasn't something he could tell her.

"You'll have to ask her," was all he said. "Then we'll both know."

Then he resumed sitting there, waiting for the doctor to come out and tell him Sorcha would be alright, praying the tremors would stop, but knowing they wouldn't.

Malcolm was willing to bet they never would.


	2. Chapter 2

Exhaustion, coupled with the soft humming of the equipment monitoring Sorcha's vitals lulled him to sleep. The dark things living within the white noise inside his mind assaulted him the second his eyes shut, taunting him with a plethora of secrets while beckoning him to follow where they wanted him to go.

Not that they ever led him anywhere but the same place over and over.

Malcolm tried to wake himself before he got entangled in this dark web but found he couldn't. The dark things refused to release him now that they had him in their hold. The harder he struggled against the hands holding him, the more they laughed, and the deeper their claws sunk into him. Helpless, he watched his younger self walking down the dark corridor.

Heading for _that_ room.

The one where the box sat, waiting.

Always waiting.

He turned his head away, resisted. He didn't want to go in there. To open that box. To see the body of the woman his mother, father, and everyone else kept telling him didn't exist.

Not when there were no restraints in place, no places for him to run, and too many people who'd question what was wrong once he woke up.

Bands formed around his chest, around his head.

Tightening, tightening.

His younger self knelt, reached for the lid.

Pushed it up.

This time, though, the box didn't get opened. A voice from far off called his name. His brow furrowed. He recognized that soft, lilting tone. How could he hear her? She wasn't part of this memory. Something touched his face. The shocking feel of warm flesh gliding over his jerked him back to consciousness.

Malcolm snapped upright, gasping for air, disoriented and confused, and feeling that familiar desire to run until he collapsed from exhaustion creeping over him. He made to bolt but fingers closed over his wrist and squeezed.

"No!" He tried to yank away but the fingers held fast. Through the fog he again heard his name. "Sorcha?"

"Yes, it's me." Panic continued to crawl through him, trembled in his hands, and pounded behind his eyes. He tried to take a deep breath but couldn't around the balls of ice lodged in his throat. "Just breathe, Mal." Her fingers curled around his. Strong, warm, _real_. "Just breathe."

"Trying," he gasped. "Can't."

"Take deep breaths," she coaxed softly. "Fill your chest and belly with air. Just like I taught you."

Deep breathing. Of course, she'd suggest that. It was what she'd do when midterms, piles of homework, and finals kicked in her own anxiety. Breathe in, hold for a few seconds, and then breathe out. Repeat as necessary. It worked to relieve the anxiety caused by school demands and expectations.

This sort of anxiety, though? Nothing worked to reduce it. Not even the pills he swallowed like candy.

"Sorch..."

"Don't argue with me." The pressure in his chest was making his head light, but he forced himself to focus on her face, on her hand holding his, on her voice. "Breathe in, breathe out."

He did as she commanded. Mainly because it was easier to give in than argue. Not that he had any hopes of it actually working. To Malcolm's shock, however, the bands started to loosen a few minutes later.

"Better?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Good." A faint smile curved her lips. "Told you it works."

"It never has before."

"You've never given it a chance to work is why."

"Yes, I have."

He hadn't really. _Well, not for these kinds of attacks, anyway_, he amended as her fingers slid between his. He did use it for the smaller, more manageable ones.

"I'm not going to pry, Mal, I promised you I never would, but can I assume this is about your father and the girl in the box?"

Shame smothered the panic. Embarrassed, shaken, he could do little more than nod. Sorcha didn't press the issue. _She could have_, he realized. She could have pressed for answers, demanded an explanation. She chose to offer friendship and comfort, instead. _I could confide in her. Tell her what I know. Have started to suspect. _

It might do him some good to get out some of what was pent-up inside him. Fears, doubts, pride kept him silent. Not because he feared she'd doubt him as everyone else. Sorcha was the only one he told about the girl in the box who hadn't said it was a figment of his imagination.

"Feeling better?"

"Given that we're in a hospital?" A place he hated. Especially after his last time in one. Not that there had been any other choice really. He _had_ been bitten by a snake. "Yes."

"Hey, you're not the one lying flat on their back here."

"For once."

She breathed out a sound that bordered suspiciously on a laugh.

"Well, you've got a bit of a habit for placing yourself in the path of danger."

"You're the one who placed herself in danger this time." He sat forward in his chair. "What were you thinking, Sorch? Going after a serial killer by yourself? You could have been killed."

"That didn't matter."

That broke the lingering hold his panic had over him. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare at her, baffled.

"That didn't matter to you..." The words felt as odd as they sounded. "You wanted to die?"

"Of course not." She squeezed his fingers. "I had faith you'd figure out the clues I sent you and get there in time with help."

"What if I hadn't, though?" It was the question that haunted him as he sat in the waiting room. The one with only one outcome as a solution. "What if I wasn't home to receive your package? What if I didn't figure out what you were telling me? What if…"

"Mal..."

"You'd be dead, Sorch." His fingers trembled. "_Dead_."

"I had to take that chance." She went to sit up but he stopped her by placing a gentle hand against her shoulder. "This was the only way to stop Robert."

"You should have called the police once you knew he was the one behind the murders."

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Robert started following me when I left the house and monitored my phone calls, text messages, and emails. You and Mom were the only people he wasn't suspicious of. And Mom, as you know, is great at many things but deciphering my shorthand isn't among them."

"The guy who was a profiler for the FBI wasn't suspicious to him?"

"He didn't know you were a profiler."

His eyebrows shot up.

"You never told him I worked for the FBI?"

"No." She lifted her free hand and stared at the white bandage wrapped around it with a frown. The long gashes to her palm and wrist would leave behind ugly scars. Malcolm was just thankful Robert hadn't severed her radial artery. She set her arm back down and looked at him. "All I told him was you were someone I called when I needed a spot of help with the criminal elements of my stories."

"But the news..."

"Robert didn't pay attention to the news unless it was about one of the women he murdered."

"A classic narcissist."

She nodded. "If the news wasn't about him, he could care less."

He wanted to ask her more but could tell she was at the end of her rope.

"You need to rest."

"So do you." She traced her thumb over the back of his hand. "Probably haven't slept in days."

"I got an hour sitting here."

"Need another hour." Her nose wrinkled. "And no offense… but you need a shower."

"Is that your polite way of saying I smell?"

"The subway smells better than you."

_She has a point_, he admitted begrudgingly. _Unfortunately_.

"Go to sleep."

"I will soon as you go."

"I'm not leaving."

He couldn't leave. He feared something would happen to her if he did. That she'd disappear.

Just like the woman in the box. She must have sensed his thoughts because she sighed and said, "You were there just as I knew you'd be."

"I might not have been, though."

"I had faith in you."

"You took a huge risk confronting him by yourself. One that..."

"Would have seen a deranged killer stopped." She stifled a yawn with her bandaged hand. "That's all that mattered. That and seeing the women he murdered given justice. If it cost my life? So be it."

"Sor..."

"I'm tired, Mal. Can we continue this tomorrow? I promise to answer all your questions then."

He felt like an ass for pestering her after all she'd been through.

"Yes," he said quickly. "We can absolutely continue this conversation after you've gotten some rest."

"Will." Her eyelids fluttered closed. "Soon as you go. There's no point in you sitting there and watching me sleep."

But he sat while Sorcha slept, kept watch in the dim light.

And was still there, keeping watch, when she woke the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments! I’m glad people are enjoying this. Still not sure where this is going since I have only got a vague outline of a plot in my head... let’s just follow it to wherever it might lead, shall we? heh


	3. Chapter 3

"You didn't have to do the grocery shopping for us."

"Figured you have enough on your hands with Sorcha." Gil set the bags of groceries on the counter. "Didn't think you needed to add worrying about things like grocery shopping to the list."

Not that the kid worried much about grocery shopping before Sorcha came to stay with him. Bright tended to skip sleeping and eating on average days. It tended to get worse he fixated on something — specifically a case or an element of his past he couldn't let go of.

Gil often stressed to him about there being more to life than murder and murderers — which included Martin Whitly — but the kid refused to heed his advice. _Malcolm Bright does whatever Malcolm Bright wants to do. Nobody can control him. _That's what he told Jessica when she came to see him. He meant those words then and he meant them now.

"Apparently," Bright said as he joined him at the counter, "people with smart phones use them to order groceries from grocery delivery services like Instacart and Amazon Fresh."

Gil swallowed a laugh. "I prefer to do my own grocery shopping, thank you."

"Mal only goes into a grocery store when there's a crime scene for him to investigate," came from the woman seated on the couch in one of the kid's shirt's and a pair of his pajama bottoms. "Otherwise, he avoids them like the plague."

"I went to the market down the street last night, remember?"

"Because we forgot to order ice cream."

"You mean _you_ forgot to order it."

"I recall you were the one most upset about it."

"Well." The kid started removing items from the bags and setting them on the counter. "It's the main ingredient in hot fudge sundaes. Which _you_ stated _you_ wanted because nothing else sounded good to you."

"Touché."

Gil watched their interplay in amused silence. Gil could count how many friends Bright had on one hand. That he didn't have more always bothered him. Part of that was self-preservation. Bright learned to weed out those wanting to become his friend simply because he was the son of _The Surgeon_. Those who didn't simply wanted to use him to further their own social connections.

They found themselves quickly dismissed.

The few people who didn't know about his father being Martin Whitly either got weirded out by his morbid fascination with murder and murderers or couldn't deal with his shopping list of quirks. Sorcha didn't care about any of Bright's odd habits. She accepted him for who he was.

_No_, he realized as Bright laughed about something she said. _She loves him for who he is_.

Gil found himself wondering about the depth of their relationship. Had they decided to resume the little dance they had been doing around each other since Harvard? Things between the two went a lot deeper than simple friendship. There was a level of comfort between them that he hadn't seen Bright have with anyone outside himself and Jackie. He had only seen Bright interact in the way he was with Sorcha.

_Largely_, he thought as he removed a carton of eggs from the bag and set them on the counter, _because Sorcha put in the time and effort to build that level of comfortability. Of ease_. _She earned Bright's trust. Proved she was there because he mattered_.

"How did you get her to agree to stay with you?" he asked Bright when there was a lull finally in their banter.

"Begging, badgering, and when that failed, subtle manipulation."

"He means he threatened to call my mother." Sorcha aimed a mildly reproving look at Bright. "Which is still an absolutely despicable thing for you to have threatened me with."

Bright picked up a silver travel mug and carried it over to her. "It got you to agree to stay with me for a few days."

"Still a despicable thing to do." She accepted the cup in the hand not covered by bandages and sniffed it. "Peppermint?"

"The only flavor of tea you drink."

"Okay, you're forgiven." She took a sip before adding, "For now."

"Oh, for now." It didn't surprise Gil when the corners of Bright's mouth turned up and brought out a hint of dimples. He also didn't look down as he smiled. Something the kid only did when he was around people who he completely trusted. "And what will happen next time I do something you find despicable but is for your own good?"

"I'll call _your_ mother."

"You're not that vindictive."

"You're right." Her nose wrinkled. "Especially since she hasn't forgiven us for keeping that we were living together pretty much the whole time we were at Harvard."

One of Gil's eyebrows shot up. "You two were living together the entire time you were at Harvard?"

He had known they were spending a lot of time together while they were at Harvard. He had known that they lived together their final two years. He hadn't been aware that they had been living together for much longer than that.

"He pretty much was living with Mandy and I." She turned her head to look at him, one eyebrow lifted. "He never told you?"

"No." Gil looked at Bright who had the good sense to look sheepish. "I'm assuming Jessica didn't know about this arrangement?"

"She knew we were spending a lot of time at my apartment but she didn't find out we were officially living together until our final year of graduate school."

"I thought your mother paid for you to have an apartment of your own."

"She did." Bright walked back into the kitchen. "The building had a fire that summer and wasn't finished by move in day."

"So, I took pity on him and let him move in with me."

"Oh, it was pity, was it?" Amusement danced in Bright's eyes. As did the fondness that came from remembering things that were pleasant and good. _So_, Gil mused as he started unpacking the bags, _the kid does have memories that aren't about Martin Whitly and some girl he thinks he found locked in a trunk_. "I thought it was because we were taking the same classes and could help each other with all the papers, homework assignments, and reading we were required to do."

"Well, it was that, too." She sent him a teasing smile. "But it was mostly pity."

"I see," he said as he took and set the eggs and milk in the refrigerator. "And studying all night for midterms and finals was what?"

"Mutually beneficial?"

"So, we had a roommates with benefits thing going on?" He set bananas and oranges in a basket by the sink. "Good to know."

"Okay, I admit, they were mostly beneficial to me." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You understood all that crap better than I did."

"You understood it better than you let on."

"You're not implying that I manipulated you into those all-night study sessions, are you?"

"Yes, I am." Humor brightened his face. "Don't pretend you didn't know exactly what you were doing."

"Mal." Her eyes blinked wide. "I'm hurt by your insinuation that I intentionally kept you awake for my own intents and purposes."

"Not like I would have slept, anyway."

"It's not like you sleep now."

"What can I say?" Bright took the loaf of bread and placed it in the oven. "I'm a creature of habit."

"You're something, all right." She turned the television off. "I just can't say what in front of Gil."

"Go ahead," Gil told her. "I'm sure it's something I've probably thought myself from time to time."

"Don't encourage her." Bright put the boxed and canned goods away in the cupboards. The nearly barren cupboards, Gil saw, swallowing a sigh. "She's hard enough to live with as it is."

"Should have thought about that before you threatened to call my mother if I didn't agree to stay with you for a few days."

"You need someone to help you as you recover from what Robert did to you."

"Yeah, yeah." She got to her feet and padded into the kitchen. In a pair of what Gil assumed was Bright's socks. "That's why I agreed to stay with you."

"Is that the only reason you agreed to stay with me?"

"Well, I'm also rather homeless at the moment, too."

"You have a home." Bright rest his forehead against hers. "Here. With me and Sunshine."

The little budgie chirped from wherever she was hiding, seemingly in agreement with the kid.

"You and a pretty bird as roommates?" Sorcha teased as Sunshine fluttered down to investigate the items on the counter. "Pretty sure I can handle that."

Sorcha's face beneath the myriad of bruises covering it was coolly composed. Her voice was silky smooth. Calm, composed, acting as if everything was perfectly alright. A less trained individual would believe her. Only, the faint flush of heat across her cheekbones betrayed her. _Not as a liar_, Gil decided as she stroked the back of the kid's arm with her fingers before taking hold of the hand with the psychogenic tremor. _She's just not here because she's homeless and needs help recovering from her ordeal. _No, she was there because Bright needed help in getting over what happened to her at the hands of Robert Harwood_. _

Sorcha was fully aware her almost being killed by her now ex-boyfriend had kicked the kid's anxiety and paranoia into overdrive. Gil had to admit _he_ wasn't completely over what happened. Busting into that basement and finding her with blood running down her arm from a long, nasty gash, face almost unrecognizable, and with a host of other injuries he couldn't see but knew existed had made him see red. He ordered Dani to remain with her while he and JT chased after Bright who was, of course, chasing after Harwood.

They cornered the man in the alley outside his former nightclub. If not for Bright tackling him into a pile of garbage and JT slapping cuffs on him, he might have done something he'd have ended up regretting.

There was no switch for Dad-mode, though. Not that Gil ever found, anyway. His kicked into overdrive the moment he learned Sorcha was being held by a man who possibly raped and murdered nineteen women. No one threatened his kids, much less caused them physical harm. Not without him doing something about it. A familiar rage burned in his gut. Trembled in his fingers. He banked it when he heard Sorcha say to Bright, "Why don't you let Gil and I make something to eat?"

"Not overly hungry," the kid answered, face twisting into a grimace.

"Not even for one of Gil's omelets?"

_That's why she agreed to stay with him_, Gil thought as Bright wavered. _Because someone needs to worry about the black smudges beneath his eyes, the tremors he did his best to hide, and the hollows in his already too gaunt cheeks._

To make sure he did more than focus on murders or chase after ghosts that may or may not exist.

To tell him to slow down, take time for himself, live life and not run from it.

Because someone needed to care about Malcolm Bright since Malcolm Bright didn't care about himself.

And knowing that was why she stayed brought Gil a bit of much needed comfort and relief.


	4. Chapter 4

Finding himself face-to-face with a serial killer wasn't exactly a new experience for Malcolm. Finding out that the man had a connection with his father? That he likely was mentored by him? That he had been there with them on that camping trip?

Well, now, that wasn't something he expected.

What the connection between Lazar and Martin Whitly was, how big a part this man played in the murders committed by The Surgeon, he didn't know. Malcolm heaved a sigh that turned into a low hiss as his ribs protested his reaching for his mug on the coffee table. He didn't mind the pain. He accepted it as the price he needed to pay in return for what Martin Whitly did to his victims.

Especially the one that haunted him at every turn. This man, Paul Lazar, had all the answers Malcolm desperately needed. He had the pieces necessary for him to fill in the huge gaps in his memory.

And he was holding them over his head like a carrot.

What exactly Lazar wanted from him, Malcolm didn't rightly know.

He had a feeling, though, based on their brief conversations. _Find my calling, he said. Like he found his. _A tremor caused tea to slosh over the rim of the cup. He didn't even flinch as the warm liquid coated his fingers. They started during his phone conversation with Paul Lazar in the conference room at the precinct and grown progressively worse after what happened between them in that service tunnel.

His mind replayed what happened between him and Paul Lazar as Sorcha sat beside him on the couch. Not that he needed the instant replay. The bandages around his chest served as enough of a reminder of what happened. He stiffened when Sorcha threaded her fingers through the hair at his nape. It was more a reflexive move than an aversion to her touching him.

"Bad dreams causing them?"

He didn't have to ask what _them_ she asked about. He sent her an easy smile before holding up his mug.

"Too much caffeine."

"You don't drink anything caffeinated." Her quick, clever fingers slid to his neck and rubbed in slow, soothing circles. The knots slowly unravelled to his relief. "The tremors and anxiety get worse when you do."

"I tend to forget you have a memory like an elephant."

"Some memory." She tucked her legs up beside her on the couch. "Damn thing always failed me on tests."

"Because you'd let your nerves get the better of you."

"The more I tried to get the anxiety under control," she said as she draped her arm around his neck, "the more I ended up forgetting everything."

"Because the anxiety took over at that point and made it impossible for you to recall the information when you needed to."

"Yeah." She tapped his shoulder with the tip of her finger. "Rather like yours is causing your tremors, I'd say."

"I'm okay."

"Try again."

"Sorch..."

"Mal." She waited until he lifted his eyes to hers before she continued. "You can't tell me you're fine and expect me to believe it. Not when your hand is trembling more than a drunk going through withdrawal."

As far as metaphors went, Malcolm had to admit that was a good one. Some days, he felt like an addict trying to clean his act up.

"Talk to me," she entreated softly. "Please."

"I'm fine."

"Says the man with a bag of frozen pees against his bandaged rib cage and bruises across his collarbone."

He made a face. "Don't you ever worry about you?"

"Have you ever thought that focusing on you, worrying about you, even helping you through what is going on is what _is_ helping me deal with what happened?"

Her voice was calm, almost flat. As if she was simply discussing something she found uninteresting. It was all a ruse, though. A way of shrugging off that the man she lived with was a serial killer.

"Sorch..."

"I have people wanting me to answer questions I don't have the answers for." She tucked a strand of her recently washed hair behind her ear. The scent of his shampoo drifted to him, calming and enticing him in equal proportions. "Not at the moment, anyway."

"You knew..."

"That they'd want me to explain things after Robert was arrested? Of course." She shook her head and sighed. "Doesn't mean I can or am able to explain those things to them."

"The bureau is taking over the case," he said with only a faint hint of bitterness. "Which means I am not going to be allowed near the case."

_As I'm not allowed near the Junkyard Killer case._

"Good."

He blinked. "You don't want me involved with Robert's case?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You play with enough serial killers is why." Her gaze dropped to his chest. "And the most recent one tried to crush you just yesterday."

"I told you." His ribs issued a loud protest as he leaned forward to set his mug on the coffee table. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Her hand trailed across his back. Soothing and comforting. Subtly offering what he routinely denied himself. "This man has not only confirmed that the woman you saw was real but admitted he was there on that camping trip."

"You never doubted me when I said I saw a woman in a box." He didn't look at her. "Why is that?"

"You're not a liar is why."

The rest of his tension melted away at those soft words. Few believed him about the woman in the box. Even Gil thought he was making her up until Paul confirmed her existence in that phone call at the precinct. It turned his already upside down world sideways. _And led me to chasing him into an underground tunnel where I nearly got my chest crushed in a turnstile._

"He kept the bracelet she wore as a souvenir." He looked at her then."He gave it to me."

"He gave it to you?" Surprise tinged her voice. "As proof that she existed?" She frowned. "Or that he was there the night she likely was killed?"

"Both," Malcolm admitted with a sigh. "He wanted me to know that he was there on that camping trip. He wanted me to know that he knows what happened out there."

"But he won't tell you what happened that night."

"Not unless I play whatever game he wants me to."

"I see." Sorcha's eyes narrowed, a speculative look. "Well, I guess we only have one choice then."

"We do?" One brow winged up. "And what's that?"

"We play the game but we make sure that we play it our way." She sent him a teasing smile. "Cause much as I like seeing you without your shirt on... I'd prefer it without cracked or bruised ribs." She surprised a laugh out of him. One that quickly turned into a groan as his sore ribs issued a protest. "See what happens when you follow strange men into underground tunnels?"

"I promise I will never do it again."

"Yes, you will," she retorted without heat or rancor. "Getting into some sort of calamity is what you do."

"You sound like Gil."

"We worry about you."

"You don't need to worry about me." He smiled at her snort. "What?"

"We worry about you because you tend _not_ to worry about you."

"I have other worries is why."

"Precisely why we worry about you."

"I don't know how you put up with me."

"I don't put up with you." She leaned over to kiss his cheek. "I love you." She sat back with a smile. "And not only do I love you, but so does Gil. That's why he asked me to come babysit you."

Malcolm found himself more amused than insulted.

"What he bribe you with?"

"Peppermint tea and cannolis."

He laughed and again felt his ribs protest. "Okay..." he wheezed. "No more laughing."

"Lay your head in my lap."

"I'm fine."

"Are we back to that already?" She took the now defrosted bag of peas and tossed them on the table. "I didn't believe it before and I don't believe it now. So, quit being stubborn and lay your head in my lap."

Malcolm gave in because he was too tired and sore to argue with her. _And she's right_, he realized as he let out a soft sigh. _I'm not fine. I'm nowhere near fine. I don't think I will ever be fine._

"When did you get so bossy?" he asked as he got comfortable. "I don't remember you being like this in school."

"I was," she said as she slowly threaded her fingers through his hair. "You just didn't argue about it because we were busy studying."

He tipped his head back to look at her.

"Is that why you asked me to tutor you in all our classes?"

Her smile was all feminine smugness.

"It worked, didn't it?"


	5. Chapter 5

"So," Dani broke the silence to say. "Your friend's handling things pretty well from the looks of it."

Malcolm turned from the photographs he had been studying to look at her.

"You talked with Sorcha?" At her nod, he asked, "When?"

"This morning."

"She was here?" A frown pulled at his brow. "Why?"

And why hadn't she told him about it?

"She was asked to come in and look at some jewelry recovered from their apartment."

He had been so preoccupied with Paul Lazar and the girl in the box that he hadn't given much thought to Robert Harwood. He should have suspected she'd be called in, though. It was standard in cases of this nature. Serials tended to take something personal from their victims — a lock of hair, jewelry, drivers license, even articles of clothing. It helped them to relieve the event. To nourish the fantasy they created. Formed a relationship between them and the victim. Sustained them as they waited for another victim to cross their path.

Some, like Bundy, kept more gruesome souvenirs. _That's who Robert tried to emulate_, he recalled as a phone rang in the room next to the one they were using as a makeshift meeting room.

"_He thought himself the next Bundy_," Sorcha said over her cup of tea. "_He fashioned himself after him, used many of Bundy's tricks to lure women into his grasp, even copied a few of his more extreme signature behaviors. All in an effort to become him_."

He accomplished his goal and then some. Like Bundy, they didn't have a number for how many women he kidnapped, raped, and murdered. Sorcha believed the number would be equivalent to Bundy's.

"_If not higher_," she admitted with a pained sigh. "_I only know about the last ten. There could be a hundred for all I know._"

Malcolm hadn't known what to say. There were no words really that could take away her feeling of guilt. Of blame. None that he found, anyway.

"How many pieces they recovered at this point?" JT's gruff voice drew him out of his dark musings. "Last I heard it was five."

"It's up to twenty now." Dani reached for her coffee. "Mostly rings but a few earrings and a charm bracelet."

Malcolm jerked hearing that. He had given Sorcha a charm bracelet to celebrate their surviving their first year of grad school. _She wasn't wearing it in the hospital._ He reasoned that nurses removed it so they could treat her injuries. _But she hasn't worn it at any point in the last few weeks_, he realized, belly curdling with a mixture of emotions.

"The charm bracelet..." Malcolm folded his hands around his elbows to keep Dani and JT from seeing the faint tremors causing them to twitch. "Was it gold with different Disney characters on it?"

"Yeah, it was." One of Dani's eyebrows lifted. "How'd you know?"

"It's Sorcha's." He closed his eyes. More a long blink than anything. "I gave it to her." Anger joined his fear and panic. "He took it from her."

_Same as Lazar took the bracelet of the girl in the box. _

"Why, though?" Dani asked. "What was the point of taking her bracelet?"

"She was his next victim." Tremors rattled the bones in his hands and wrists. "He intended to keep it as a souvenir."

"Wait a minute." JT set the folder he had been looking through on the table and looked at him. "Weren't they dating or something?"

"They were, yes," he confirmed with a nod. "They lived together for a little over a year."

"Then how was she his next victim?"

"Because she figured out who his next victim was going to be." Malcolm opened his eyes to look at him. "And she took her place."

Nothing ever seemed to faze JT Tarmel. He tended to roll with the punches as Gil liked to say. The faint flicker of surprise that crossed his face told him that Sorcha exchanging herself with Robert's victim had caught him unaware. He recovered quickly, though.

"Knew it." He huffed a breath as he shook his head. "Just as weird as you."

"I think she's good for you." There was the hint of a smile on Dani's face. "She understands you and all of your... habits."

"Yes, well, a few of my habits tend to annoy her."

Like his propensity for rushing into dangerous situations, what she called a general disregard for his health and well-being, and his belief that he couldn't be fixed.

"Imagine that," came from JT.

Malcolm ignored that and asked Dani, "Did she recognize any of the other pieces they recovered?" instead.

Dani nodded. "A ring."

"Engagement?"

"I'm not sure." A frown feathered her brow. "Why?"

"Because she found an engagement ring in his pants pocket," he said. "That's what made her realize he was the one behind the kidnappings."

JT snorted. "Most women would be ecstatic about finding an engagement ring in their boyfriends pocket."

"Maybe she would have been." Thinking of Sorcha engaged bothered him. Figuring out why, though, would have to wait until after they identified who the girl in the box was and stopped Paul Lazar from killing any more people. "If the name of the last girl to go missing wasn't engraved in the band she might have been thrilled to find that ring."

"Why reach out to you, though?" JT asked. "Why didn't she just call the cops?" He grunted, then grumbled, "Like people are supposed to do."

"She couldn't call the cops." When he arched an eyebrow, Malcolm elaborated by saying, "Robert was watching her every move."

"And monitoring her calls and emails," Dani guessed with a sigh. "Making it where she had to contact someone she could trust but that wouldn't make him suspicious."

"Again," JT said while staring at Malcolm. "Why you?"

"Because I'm the only one who knows how to decipher her writing."

"She writes in code?"

"Shorthand."

"Yeah." JT shook his head and reached for his file. "Just as weird as you."

"Why did Sorcha talk with Gil?" That was the one thing he didn't understand. "Wasn't a special agent assigned to the case because a few of the victims are thought to be from other states?"

"A special agent was assigned," Dani confirmed with a nod. "She refused to speak with them."

"She refused?" He frowned. "Why?"

"Said she'd only talk with Gil." JT sent him a long look that left Malcolm feeling exposed. "Or you."

"I imagine that went over well with whoever they sent."

"Oh, he didn't appreciate her refusing to speak to him, at all," JT confirmed with might have passed for a smirk. "Not that your friend cared. She let him and that Agent Swanson know what she thought of them and their profiling skills."

He didn't doubt Sorcha had no problem in telling Collette what she thought of her or her profiling skills. The two clashed the one time she visited him in DC. Still, as much as he didn't like Collette, she was there to help them find and stop Paul Lazar.

"That was..." he stopped, sighed.

"Uncalled for?" Dani supplied, a faint smile curving her lips. "Actually, I think she said everything that needed to be said."

"Like I said..." JT flipped open his folder. "She's just as weird as you."

"Sorcha's actually more normal than me."

_She's not broken_, he added silently. _She still has a chance at normalcy. I blew whatever chance I had at that with Eve_.

"Oh, I can believe that." JT snorted a laugh. "Nobody's as weird as you." It was almost a compliment by Malcolm's standards. At least as close to one as he'd ever heard from him. Malcom was about to say so when JT grumbled, "She's the one you should have gone out with the other night."

"What? No. She's my friend."

"I married my best friend."

Whatever Malcolm might have replied with died when his phone vibrated. He retrieved it from his jacket pocket and checked the caller ID. _Unknown_. A frown feathered his brow as he answered.

"Hello?"

"_She's a pretty girl, Malcolm_." The man on the other end of the phone spoke in a lazy drawl, almost conversational. "_Reminds me of the girl in the box. You remember her, don't you?_" His chuckle sent chills down Malcom's spine. "_That's right, you don't._"

"Who are you talking about?"

"_Come now, Malcolm_," Lazar chided. "_Don't play coy with me. You know who I'm talking about."_

He did know, he realized, heart dropping into his stomach. What he didn't know was how Lazar knew.

"How do you know what Sorcha looks like?" Dani and JT gazed at him with concerned expressions but he focused on the man on the other end of the line. "Where did you meet her? When?"

Rather than answer his questions, though, Lazar said, "_She's smaller than the girl in the box. Darker complexioned, too. I'm guessing there's black Irish in her. Am I right_?"

Malcolm swallowed around the lump of ice lodged in his throat. _Play the game_, he told himself. _Keep him talking. It's the only way to get him to leave a clue about what his next move might be_.

"Yes."

"_She smells like the bouquet of flowers I delivered to your mother. Orchids and jasmine. An intoxicating scent_."

Fear wrapped itself around Malcolm's throat. He pushed it aside. Willed himself to focus. To think. There was something about the flowers. A connection. He had to find out what it was.

"Why orchids and jasmine?" He looked at Gil as he entered the room. Read the concern in his eyes. "What's significant about those flowers?"

"_Tut tut tut, Malcolm_," Lazar said. "_I'll tell you about the flowers but only after you figure out what your true calling is_."

And then the line went dead.


	6. Chapter 6

His call went straight to voicemail.

_Again. _

Twenty times in the last thirty-five minutes it went to voicemail. Each time he called he told himself she'd answer, laughing, and playfully scolding him for blowing up her phone.

Each time the call went to voicemail a bit of the hope he clung too, died.

"She's not answering." Malcolm shot a panicked look at Gil. "She always answers when I call her. No matter what time it is or what she's doing. She answers."

It was an unspoken rule. Something they agreed on back in college for when they didn't have classes together. Always answer when the other calls. Even if it was to say they'd call back in a few minutes. It was a safety measure. A way of making sure the other was safe, they were leaving the library or class, and be home soon. _Answer, Sorcha_, he silently pleaded. _I need to know you're okay_.

He needed to know Paul Lazar didn't have her.

His breath hitched as a thousand images raced through his mind. Gil must have sensed his distress because he took a hand off the steering wheel and placed it on his shoulder. Squeezed gently. Reassuringly.

"It's possible she can't hear her phone or feel it vibrate," he said. "She'll call you back soon as she's able."

Logical. Reasonable. _Entirely possible_, he realized as tremors shot from his fingers to his elbows. Sorcha could be in the shower or an area of the city where there was limited phone reception. _She could be talking to her family. Making final travel arrangements or trying to find out what to bring to dinner_.

All things that people did.

The kind who celebrated holidays, anyway.

"Bright..."

"I'm trying to remain calm." He was. He really was. He just couldn't stop the fear pulsing beneath his skin, twisting in his gut, and lodged in his chest. No more than he could stop his mind from conjuring up all the ways Lazar could be torturing Sorcha. "But there's no way he could know what she smells like. Not without getting close enough to her to smell her."

_Close enough to grab her_. That thought played through his mind over and over. Added to his paranoia and fear. Caused him to almost throw up the dry toast and tea he managed to choke down for breakfast.

"Is it possible Sorcha went to see your mother?"

"No." He faintly recalled Sorcha mentioning wanting to go and see his mother. To apologize. Make amends. For what, he didn't know. Now, he wished he asked her. "Maybe. I'm not sure." He looked at him. "Why?"

"Lazar told you that her perfume reminded him of the flowers he had delivered to your mother."

A light flipped on inside Malcolm. "He had to have sent the flowers this morning."

"Right." Gil sent him an easy smile. "Try and call your mother."

Malcolm did as he suggested.

It, too, went straight to voicemail. This time, though, he left a voicemail.

"Mother, I need you to call me as soon as you get this."

The next five minutes became the longest of his life. The commissionaire at the hotel Sorcha took up temporary residence in confirmed she wasn't there before they got two steps up the walkway.

"Do you know where Miss Corbin might have gone?" Gil asked. "Did she mention a particular place or location she might be heading?"

"No." He moved to open the door for a couple exiting. "Just said something about wanting to make amends with someone before Christmas."

Gil sent him a questioning look. "Your mother?"

"It seems like as good a place to try as any."

The drive to his mother's seemed to take forever. In reality, it was twenty minutes. Malcolm was out the car and darting through the throng of paparazzi calling out questions and demanding statements before Gil had a chance to pull the car to a full stop.

"Bright, wait!"

He heard Gil over the pounding of his heart, but couldn't bring himself to do as he asked. A thousand scenarios raced through his mind, each one more horrible than the last. They could be suffering the same fate as the girl in the box. Fear wrapped itself around his throat and cinched tight as that damning thought set the dark things inside his head to laughing and jeering.

His heart pounded; his blood pumped.

His breath came in short, shallow pants. How he got the front door open with how hard his hands shook was beyond him. He raced into the foyer ahead of Gil, calling to his mother and Sorcha as he went.

"Mother? Sorcha?"

Nothing.

He went room to room, searching, heart in his throat, and fear pounding in his veins. There was no sign of them anywhere.

"Bright?"

"They're not here." Frustration bled through the fear. Malcolm closed his eyes. Voiced what he dreaded. "What if..."

Voices — _feminine voices_, he realized — came from the kitchen. He and Gil looked at each other before going to see if it was them. They entered the foyer just as his mother, with Sorcha a few steps behind her, exited the kitchen. Both stopped when they saw them.

"Malcolm?" Concern and dismay warred with each other on his mother's face. "What are you doing here?" Furious disapproval washed away the concern when she spied Dani, JT, and a handful of uniformed officers standing behind them. "Why are police searching my house?"

"They were looking for you," Gil said gently. "And Sorcha."

"For us?" Her brow creased. "Why?"

"Because Paul Lazar indicated in a phone conversation that he was here at your house some time this morning."

"That man was here?" Fury smothered any fear his mother felt. "At my house?"

"Yes, he was."

"Why?" She shook her head. "What does he think it proves?"

"That he can get to us." Sorcha turned to Malcolm. "Right?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes."

"He called you?"

Again he said, "Yes."

"What did he say?"

He wet his lips with his tongue while debating the best way to answer. _Truth, _he decided as he lifted his eyes to hers.

"He said you remind him of the girl in the box."

Surprise pursed her lips. "And what else?"

"That you smelled like orchids and jasmine."

"That so?" The corners of her mouth bowed up, but there was little humor in the smile. "Well, at least we know the dog has a good sense of smell."

Malcolm frowned at her.

"This isn't the time for jokes, Sorch."

"I think it's the perfect time for jokes."

"Did you receive a delivery of flowers today, Jessica?" Gil intervened to ask. "Orchids, jasmine?"

"I signed for a delivery of orchids and jasmine." Sorcha set the shopping bags she was holding down on the floor before pointing to a large bouquet sitting on a table. "They arrived just as I did."

"Did you see the man who delivered them?"

"I know the man who delivered them." She waved a hand at Malcolm. "So does Malcolm, in fact."

"I do?" His brow furrowed. "Who was it?"

"Noah Aldler."

"Riley's cousin?"

"Yes." She moved to the table and picked up a card resting next to the vase. "The flowers came from their mother's shop."

"You didn't see anyone else?" Gil asked as he took the card from her. "Talk to anyone else?"

"Besides the vultures outside?" She shook her head. "No."

"Why didn't you answer your phone?"

He didn't mean to blurt the question out like that. Or to accuse her of ignoring his calls. He didn't apologize, though. He couldn't. Not after the forty-five minutes of hell he went through. Sorcha moved to him and took his quaking hands between her own.

"I didn't know you were calling me." Sympathy and understanding were in her voice, her eyes. "My phone decided to become a thousand dollar paperweight while your mother and I were shopping." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "I'd never ignore your calls, Mal. You know that."

Malcolm felt a trickle of warmth melt away the ice balled in his belly. Shame smothered the panic. Embarrassed for how he acted, he attempted to apologize.

"I'm sor—"

"Stop." Quietly, sternly. "Don't minimize your feelings. They're valid and important."

"I'm not minimizing my feelings."

He was, though. He knew it and she knew it. Sorcha didn't push the issue, however. Not then. No, she'd wait until they were alone before broaching the subject with him.

"Talk to me about Lazar," she said instead. "What else did he say?"

"Just that you're smaller than the girl in the box. Darker complexioned."

He'd tell her later about Lazar refusing to tell him what the significance of orchids and jasmine until he figured out what his true calling was.

"He's emotionally manipulating you." She rubbed her thumbs across his knuckles. Subtly soothing. Quietly supportive. "Using me, your mother, what he knows about that camping trip as a way of keeping you off your game."

"She's right, Bright." Gil folded his arms across his chest. "He knows what buttons of yours to push. He has from the start."

"How do we stop him?" There was a strained edge to his mother's voice. The only outward sign of her emotional state. "What do we need to do to put this man away?"

"You start by letting the FBI do its job."

Malcolm froze. He deliberately kept his face blank as he turned to look at the woman standing in the doorway.

"Who are you?" His mother demanded.

"Mrs. Whitly." Colette bit the words off as she crossed the foyer. "We haven't had the pleasure of being formally introduced. I'm Special Agent Swanson." She glared over her shoulder at Malcom. "And I will be handling this case from now on."


	7. Chapter 7

The foyer became thick with a cloud of hostility. The air around him hummed with an intensity that fragmented his already frazzled nerves further. Against him, Sorcha vibrated. Malcolm kept a tight hold on her hands to keep her from doing something reckless. _Like hit a federal agent. _

The feud between her and Colette started the moment the two met. Malcolm wasn't sure what exactly happened between them, Sorcha refused to talk to him about it, but he had a pretty good idea it involved him and Colette's unflattering opinions about him.

He needed to get Sorcha out of there before Colette had a chance to spew any of her typical vitriol in front of her. A fight between them was the last thing any of them needed. Especially with Lazar stalking her and his mother. A glance at Gil's face revealed he felt the same way. There was only one person standing in the way of him leaving with Sorcha: _Colette_. Malcolm schooled his features before deciding to try to address her.

"Colette—"

"You were told to stay away from this investigation."

"Yes, I'm well aware I was told to stay away from this investigation," he said calmly, reasonably. "But..."

"You just can't seem to help yourself." Her eyes and face registered her dislike, disdain, and distrust. "So, let me make myself perfectly clear: stay away from my investigation or I will have you arrested for interfering in a federal investigation."

"Wow, here two minutes and your inferiority complex has already reared its ugly head." Acid would taste sweeter than Sorcha's tone. "That must be some sort of record for you."

The tension thickened to the point that Malcolm imagined he could cut through it with his hand. Colette swung her heated gaze to Sorcha's. _This is not going to end well if it continues for much longer. _He squeezed Sorcha's fingers in a silent plea for her to remain silent but the fierce expression on her face told him there was little chance of that happening.

Loyalty was never something he had to question with Sorcha. It was more a religion with her. She protected her family and friends with a ferocity that often amazed him. Especially since he didn't feel himself worthy of such love or loyalty. _Not that she ever agrees with me when I point out how I don't deserve it. _He was about to ask Colette to let him and Sorcha leave when she plastered a polite smile on her face and folded her hands in front of her before speaking.

"Miss Corbin..."

"Save the pleasantries, Agent Swanson, we know they're as fake as the boots you're wearing."

"There's no need for such hostility," Colette said evenly. "I'm simply here to do my job."

"No, you're here because you're trying to build a case against Malcom." Malcolm jerked hearing that. Was that what Colette was doing? Gathering evidence against him? Sorcha continued before he could demand a reason. "Given you believe him to be working with the Junkyard Killer and all."

His mother let out a small sound. Whether it was surprise at hearing Colette openly accused him of being Lazar's partner or anger at her for making such a wild allegation, Malcolm didn't know. Sorcha was giving him enough to worry about. He couldn't handle any of his mother's usual dramatics, too.

"I also told you about-"

"His unconventional habits and destructive patterns leading to his dismissal from the FBI?" Her smile was thin as a blade. "Yes, I know all about why the bureau let him go. Way I see it? Their loss is the NYPDs gain."

"Really?" Colette's gaze shifted to his. "Because I wouldn't say chopping off a man's hand to have been in _his_ benefit. Something the city clearly agreed about given they paid the man a large sum of money."

"He's alive," Sorcha fired back. "Unlike the little girl who died because your deep resentment and blind ambition prevented you from accurately figuring out who the man was behind the kidnappings."

"Her death was an unfortunate accident."

"More would have occurred if Malcolm hadn't stepped in and saved your ass."

Anger and something darker suffused Colette's face. _It goes beyond simple dislike_, Malcolm realized as alarm bells went off inside his head. He tried to get Sorcha to simmer down by nudging her, none-too-gently, in the back. She responded by kicking him in the shin with the back of her foot. A subtle refusal, as much as a silent warning to leave her to handle things.

Not that he planned on doing that.

"He did not save my ass," Colette bit out. "He interfered. Just as he's doing now."

"Oh, so it wasn't his _unconventional_ methods that stopped the last little girl from being snatched right from beneath your nose?"

A snort of amusement came from behind Malcolm. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to find it came from Dani, but found himself surprised when he discovered it was JT, instead.

"Your girl's not playing," he said gruffly when he noticed him staring at him.

_Is that... approval? _Malcolm couldn't be sure. JT wasn't an easy man for him to read.

"Bright, why don't you take Sorcha into the living room?" Gil looked towards his Mother for approval. "We can handle whatever questions Agent Swanson has."

"But-" Sorcha began but Gil stifled her protest with a smile and a tone Malcolm was all too familiar with him.

"Go." Then he dropped his tone so only she and Malcolm could hear him. "You're not going to help Bright if you get yourself arrested."

Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief when Sorcha sent one last fulminating glare at Colette before turning to head into the living room.

"Thank you," he told Gil gratefully. "She wouldn't have stopped if you hadn't said something."

"That's why I did say something," he said, smiling. "Now, go on. I'll handle this." He glanced over Malcolm's head. "You handle her."

"This'll be easier to handle than she'll be."

Gil's soft chuckle and JT's snort followed him into the living room. Why they found it so amusing he didn't know. Facing a killer like Lazar was less stressful to him than dealing with Sorcha's temper. He shut the doors before turning towards her.

"She's here to bury you," she said before he could speak. "To completely discredit you and ruin your reputation."

"Colette doesn't like me," he agreed as he crossed to her. "But she wouldn't go so far as to bury me."

Discredit him? Ruin his reputation? He could see Colette doing that. She tried once before. The deputy director hadn't listened, though, and the matter got dropped. _Until they decided they could no longer do that and fired me. _

"Mal." She paced in a small, tight circle. She reminded Malcolm of a caged jaguar he once saw on a case. Agitated and waiting for someone to get close enough to strike. "She has the footage from what happened between you and Lazar in that tunnel. She's read your report about the incident. She knows you didn't tell the entire truth about what happened down there."

A chill crept over Malcolm. "She showed you the footage."

"Yes, she did." Her anger stung the air. "Quite happily, in fact."

Malcolm closed his eyes and prayed for the floor to open and swallow him up.

"I told you what happened, Sorch." He opened his eyes when he felt her hand against his cheek. "I didn't keep anything from you."

"It was still hard for me to sit there and watch him attack you," she said in a low, emotionally charged voice. "To know he could have killed you had he wanted to."

"He didn't, though."

_He changed his mind after I told him what he wanted to hear_.

"He has something else in mind for you." She rest her forehead against his and sighed. "He good as told you that when he said there was hope for you."

"He wants me to replace my father." The damning words stuck in his throat. "To fill the role that he played."

"You're not your father." The hand on his cheek slid to his chest. "You're Malcom." Her fingers curled over his heart. "The heart that beats in your chest is a good one."

_"_I'm my father's son." That's what he told Lazar. "We're the same."

"No, you're not." Quietly, firmly. "You're nothing like him." It was an argument they had been having since college. One he had no hope of winning. "Not that the she-devil comprehends that."

"You know what the general belief is about the children of serial killers."

"You defy that." Her warmth and her scent surrounded him. "You prove that not every child of a serial killer ends up a killer."

"How can we be so sure?" His hands settled on her waist. The comfort of the familiar. Desperately needed after everything that happened. "Sorch, I have huge chunks of my memory erased. How do we know that-"

"Stop." Her voice was like crushed velvet. "I know you can't remember what happened on that camping trip. I know you're afraid of what might have happened out there. You were out there, alone, with two men who hurt a lot of people."

The things inside his head laughed and jeered. Taunted him with fragmented visions that left him frustrated and confused.

"Paul Lazar has the answers to my questions."

"And like your father," she said with thinly veiled disdain, "he's using those answers to control you. Not that Agent Swanson is capable of understanding that."

The words, the way her voice trembled gave Malcolm a clear understanding of what happened between her and Colette that morning. It also explained their heated exchange out in the hall.

"She showed you the video."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because she wanted me to see the evidence that proves you're working with him."

Anger burned away his nerves. It was one thing for Colette to attack his character to his face. Behind his back? To his friends? Family? That was another thing altogether.

"I'll explain to her-"

"You're going to explain nothing to her."

Malcom reared back at her sharp tone. "But-"

"Anything you say or do she's going to use to discredit you. To prove that what's been said about you is true." She held a hand up when he went to speak. "She's working this case with _you_ as her primary suspect. Because she wants to take _you_ down. To put you in a cell next to your father for the rest of your life. And she's going to do whatever she has to in order to make it happen."

Colette disliked him. She made that obvious on more than one occasion. Her disdain was unmistakable. Her distrust clear. Was she really so spiteful she'd ignore facts, twist situations, and whatever else to get back at him? He hadn't thought so.

Now?

He wasn't so sure.

"I have to find Lazar," he said somberly. "It's the only way to prove that I'm not his partner."

"We."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"I said we."

"No." He shook his head. "I need to do this on my own. I'm the one who wants the answers."

"Mal, you're not in this alone." She took his hands. "You have a team. You have me. We work this together." She pinned him with a stern look. "And that means you better not go off chasing leads by yourself. You understand me?"

Malcolm didn't argue with her. He learned with Sorcha that sometimes it was just easier to say nothing at all.


	8. Chapter 8

"Why didn't you tell me about Robert taking your charm bracelet?"

Malcolm hadn't intended to jump into a discussion about her charm bracelet. Not until they were back at his apartment, anyway. The words just came tumbling out, though, surprising him, as much as they did Sorcha.

"How did..." she stopped, grimaced. "Gil?"

"Dani."

"Ah." She wore the diamond hoops her parents gave her as a graduation present. Needing their comfort and strength, he realized. Something she used to get from her charm bracelet. _And can't now that it's in police custody_. "You'd have found out about it eventually."

"Yes, but why didn't you tell me about it?" His fingers curled into the soft fabric of her skirt. As much to keep him anchored in the here and now as to keep her close. "That's what I don't understand."

"Shame, mostly."

"Shame?" Malcolm's eyebrows winged up. He hadn't expected that as an answer. "You don't have any reason to feel ashamed. You were a victim."

"Yes, but I let him take the bracelet." She lowered her gaze but not before Malcolm glimpsed the anger and self-loathing. Things he understood far too well. "Robert knew that bracelet meant the world to me. That's why he took it." She breathed out a soft, disgusted sound. "His final way of showing his power over me."

"I'll get you another one." Malcolm had already found one by doing a quick internet search on his phone at the precinct. He planned to go and buy it once Sorcha was some place far from the reaches of Colette and Paul Lazar. "I promise."

"No." Sorcha rest her forehead against his. "You don't need to buy me another one. It's okay."

Malcolm breathed deep as that wonderfully unique scent that was hers wrapped itself around him. As comforting as it was enticing.

"I want to buy you another one." He buried his nose into her hair. Let himself drown in jasmine and orchids. "Something that doesn't remind you of him."

He was going to buy her another one and that was all there was to it, he decided as she made a noncommittal reply. It's less, he told himself as she settled herself more firmly against him, about replacing the bracelet because Robert took it and more about what it meant.

For him as much as Sorcha.

That bracelet expressed his feelings. Something he was no good at conveying verbally. Seeing her naked wrist made him feel as if she didn't know what he thought about her. Felt for her. He _had_ to fix that. He _needed_ to fix it. _I'm going to fix it and that's all there is to it. _

"Let's just focus on Lazar, okay?" she said quietly. "He's the most important issue we have to deal with at the moment. Well, him and that uptight bitch in your mother's foyer."

_Deflecting_, Malcolm realized, belly tightening. _Twisting the subject away from the charm bracelet and Robert to avoid dealing with it. _

Not like he didn't know who she learned that particular behavior from. He let it go, though. Same as she let go of him minimizing his feelings. There'd be time later to talk about those things. _And she's right, we need to focus on Lazar. _

"Lazar knows who you are." His heart twisted just saying those words. "He knows you're important to me."

How he managed to find out about his relationship with Sorcha was something he needed to figure out. Neither of them used any type of social media. Ainsley had a Twitter account but she hadn't posted anything on it that would have led Lazar back to Sorcha.

Her and her family also refused all interviews following Robert's arrest. There were no pictures in the papers of them together. No articles written detailing their personal relationship. Nothing connected them together. _So, how did Lazar find out about her_?

"He's stalking you, Mal."

As much as he wanted to deny it, Malcolm knew it was true. Lazar waited outside the precinct for an opportunity to get him alone.

To get him somewhere he could control.

Somewhere he could take his time.

Exert his dominance over him.

Teach him a lesson for having interrupted him from completing his mission.

Warn him about what would happen if he continued interfering.

Stalking, capturing, and torturing.

Behaviors commonly associated with power and control killers but which could also be attributed to mission-oriented ones like Lazar, as well.

Paul Lazar could have found out his home address. He could have waited outside his building for another opportunity to get him alone. Another chance to exert his control, dominance, and power over him.

And he could have seen Sorcha coming or going from my apartment. Knowing it, realizing it, sliced him with sharp stabs of guilt. _I pulled her into this. I placed her in this danger. It's my fault_.

Same as what happened to the girl in the box was his fault.

"_What did you do, little Malcom_?" Lazar's voice blocked out all other thoughts and sounds. _What did you do on that camping trip? Huh_?"

He didn't know the answer to those questions. Pushing Lazar for them only made him ask other things that Malcolm either couldn't answer or didn't want to answer because the truth was too hard to bear.

Disjointed pictures, minuscule fragments, and brief flashes that connected to nothing flashed through his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and silently begged them to stop. For the dark things taunting and jeering at him to leave him alone.

Not that they did.

The girl in the box walking towards him. Lazar taunting him. Crushing his chest with those iron bars on the turnstile. Him as a child running through the forest, a bloody knife clutched in his hand.

Tremors traveled from his fingers into his hands, his wrists, and rattled up into his elbows as the images came faster and faster.

"Mal, look at me." Malcolm shook himself from their clutches and focused on Sorcha's face. Read the worry in her dark eyes. "Breathe."

The bands already wrapped themselves around his chest, around his head, though.

Tightening, tightening.

Like always.

"Sorch—"

"Breathe," she repeated, voice soft, cajoling. "Just breathe."

"I put you in danger," he managed around his dry, swollen tongue. "If I-"

"Breathe." One of her hands drifted to the back of his neck and rubbed in slow, soothing circles. "In, out. Like I showed you."

The pressure in his chest was making his head light, but he forced himself to focus on Sorcha, on her hand on his neck, on her voice. It steadied him enough that he could get the last damning words locked inside him, out.

"Lazar was watching my building."

"Yes, stalking you." Her fingers drifted into his hair. "Now, breathe."

It was easier to give in than argue. And the last time she ordered him to breathe it ended up working. He figured it was one time out of a thousand. To Malcolm's shock, however, the bands started to loosen a few minutes later. _Why is this working_? _It never did before. Well, it did_, he amended as he released another shuddering breath. When she made him follow through with the exercise.

"Okay," he said finally. "I'm okay."

"Mhm." She stroked the back of his neck. "Take a bit longer."

"I'm fine."

"F-I-N-E," she spelled in a slightly playful tone. "Fu—"

"Don't."

"Why not?" she pouted.

"Because it's unnecessary for one." He ignored her snort. "And my Mother could walk in and hear it for another."

_Which is the last thing we need_, he added silently.

"You're such a killjoy sometimes, Mal."

Her light teasing worked. As it always did. He found himself smiling despite his nerves still doing the Paso Doble underneath his skin.

"I honestly don't know how you put up with me."

_Since nobody else can. Not for long, anyway. _

"I told you that I don't put up with you." She draped her arms around his neck with a smile. "I love you."

A grunt was followed by, "Oh, yeah, you two are just friends. And I'm the Queen of England."

Malcolm twisted his head around to see JT standing in the doorway. How long he might have been there was anybody's guess. Clearly, it was long enough to hear what Sorcha said. Before he could assure JT they were just friends, though, Sorcha replied. With an unnecessary bit of amusement to Malcolm's thinking.

"Look a bit more tan than usual, your Majesty."

"Sprayed on too much tanning spray."

Sorcha snorted a laugh as Malcolm asked him, "What's up?" while shooting her an unamused look.

"Gil wants me to take you home."

_Home_.

As in his apartment. Panic and dread curdled in Malcolm's stomach. No, they couldn't go to his apartment. Not until he could be sure that Lazar wasn't somewhere nearby and watching.

Waiting.

"No," he announced. Sorcha blinked at him owlishly while JT just lifted one brow. "We're not going hom— to my apartment," he quickly clarified. "We're not going to my apartment. Not tonight."

"Yeah, man, I'm not even gonna bother to question." He stepped back into the foyer. "I'll be out in the car."

"We'll leave soon as we say goodbye to my mother."

He wasn't looking forward to that particular conversation.

JT left him and Sorcha alone then.

"We're not going to your apartment?" Malcolm shook his head and looked at her. Saw her puzzled expression. "Well, may I ask where we _are_ going?"

"Your hotel."

"My hotel?" Sorcha blinked. "I'm sorry, did you say my hotel?"

"Yes, I did."

Sorcha studied him with eyes far too shrewd for his liking.

"We're going to stay in my hotel room when your apartment is more comfortable for you?" She shook her head. "Don't think so."

"Sorch—"

"This is about Lazar, isn't it?"

He should have known she'd figure out why he didn't want to go back to his apartment. Sorcha might have chosen to go down a different path than him, but she took the same classes, learned the same psychological theories, and could read people and situations just like him. _She was raised by a profiler, after all. One of the best, in fact. _

Which was why Sorcha not recognizing Robert as a predator when she met him made no sense. Ian Corbin would have seen what he was the second he met him. Why couldn't she? It was a subject they'd have to get into at another time. _Once Lazar's arrested and no longer a threat_.

"Malcolm?" Her using his full name snapped him back to attention. Sorcha never used his full name unless she was serious. "This is about Lazar, isn't it?"

"He could be there and watching," he admitted finally with a faint grimace. "Waiting for the right moment to kidnap one or the both of us."

_Use us against each other. Maximize the torment by forcing us to watch as he tortures the other. Make us_... he didn't finish that thought.

"Let him." Sorcha set her jaw. "I'm not afraid."

He was, though.

"Please," he pleaded softly. "Do this for me."

She surprised him when she gave in, gave up, and rest her forehead back against his. "Okay," she said. "I'll do it for you."


	9. Chapter 9

"I think Lazar has given us a clue," Sorcha said as they walked down the hall towards her hotel room a short time later. "About when and where he saw me. Smelled my perfume."

"A clue?" A frown feathered Malcolm's brow. "What clue?"

"The flowers he sent to your mother?" Sorcha glanced at him as she reached into her purse for the key to her room. "The orchids and jasmine?"

_Right, the flowers_. He had forgotten about the flowers during her heated exchange with Colette. _No clue about why that was_, he mused as he took the slender card she passed to him and unlocked the door.

"The orchids and jasmine." Malcolm pushed the door open and stepped back to let Sorcha enter. "Why do you believe they're a clue?"

Her hand brushed against his as she passed him. Malcolm found himself wanting to reach out and take hold of it. To offer back some of the comfort and support she was always giving him. He didn't. He wasn't sure whether it was fear of himself or of her rejecting it; _him_.

"It wasn't just orchids and jasmine in the bouquet, Mal." Sorcha's gaze cut to him over her shoulder. Shimmered with a tidal wave of memories. "There was also calla lilies." She turned to place her purse and a few of the shopping bags she carried into a chair. "White calla lilies."

Her voice may have been calm, flat even. However, Malcolm recognized it as the one she used when she talked about subjects she found especially distasteful or disturbing. He wasn't fooled by it, though. Underneath that coolly composed facade burned ten years of anger, hurt, and never-gone grief.

Things Malcolm kept locked inside for fear of what'd happen if he let himself express those emotions as they wanted. People could get hurt if he didn't keep a tight control over himself. _They had gotten hurt_, he amended as he set the rest of her bags on the bed.

Malcolm could recall more than a few instances where he lashed out at someone in a burst of red-hot anger. Hurt them with words — since he saved physical punishments for himself — because he hurt and didn't know any other way to make the pain stop.

This pain, though, was one he and Sorcha shared.

One that bonded them in ways friendship couldn't.

That went beyond even the intimacy they shared.

And was also the reason for her antipathy to calla lilies: _death_.

Specifically, her father's death.

_He's been gone six years_, he realized as she kicked off her shoes. _Doesn't seem possible it's been that long. _

Yet, it had been. Guilt swirled in his belly, pooled in his heart. Sorcha had so much happen after they graduated. Her dad getting diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and her brother Sean coming home from Afghanistan with his legs missing and PTSD. _I should have been there to help her face it. Supported her as she supported me. _

Malcolm openly admitted he struggled with things of that nature. It wasn't that he didn't want to support people. Or help them cope with their problems. It was that he didn't know _how_. His families answer for dealing with problems was to either avoid them or talk about them in hushed voices.

So, he did what he always did: buried himself in work and tried to forget what was going on.

_I didn't, though. Not really_.

How could he?

Ian Corbin had been another mentor. Someone he looked up too. Admired. Respected. He was on that very short list of those he could rely on. Trust would be there if he called on him for help. _Same as Gil_.

Ian, along with his wife, Erin, welcomed him into their home, their family, and their hearts. They became as much a surrogate family as the Arroyos, offering him a place to stay when he didn't want to return home to New York, never seeing him as the son of _The Surgeon_, and providing the comfort and support he needed when he needed it most.

That was why he chose to spend the majority of his vacations between the Arroyos and the Corbins. He could pursue his interests without any of his mother's usual questioning or long list of reasons for why pursing those pursuits wasn't appropriate. He learned a lot from Gil and Ian during those vacations. Things he used now when he created a profile or helped identify potential victims.

Malcolm started to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Possibilities for a future that wasn't corroded by his past. He stopped seeing his father, set himself realistic goals, allowed himself to dream, found he was in a place where he felt stable emotionally.

He even found himself making plans for after he graduated and started working with the FBI. _Plans that included her_, he recalled as she moved to the small coffee pot. Then the world came crashing down after Ian told them about his diagnosis.

Sorcha chose not to go to Quantico, wanting to spend what time she could with her father, and to help her mother with whatever could be done to make his time comfortable. _She told me to go, though. To do it for the both of us. To live that dream for her_.

She never said to live it without her, though.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

Malcolm blinked and pulled himself from his thoughts. "What?"

She held up a small container. Malcolm recognized it as the one she kept in her purse. He hid a smile by ducking his head. _Some things might have changed_, he realized, _but Sorcha's love affair with tea isn't one of them_. "I think we both could use a cup at this moment."

"Peppermint?"

"I thought I'd humor you by making Earl Grey." She smiled but Malcolm saw it didn't quite reach her eyes. _Lost in her own dark thoughts_, he realized. "Just this once."

"Want me to help?"

Not that there was much he could do, really. This wasn't his apartment. There was no kitchen here. He just didn't like standing there and doing nothing. Not with nervous energy pulsing beneath his skin. Malcolm needed to do something to release the pressure building inside him before it reached critical levels. There just wasn't much he could do

"I can handle brewing a pot of tea." She crossed to him and set a hand on his arm. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable? Well," she amended as she made her way towards the bathroom, "comfortable for _you_, anyway."

Malcolm rolled his eyes but obliged her by shrugging out of his outer coat. He walked over to hang it in the closet. _The nearly empty closet_, he realized with some surprise. A glance around the small suite revealed it contained few of Sorcha's personal things. _Why_? he wondered as his gaze landed on her laptop and a box of notepads by the bed. _Did she take everything else to her brother's_? She wouldn't answer if he asked. Not when her attention was on Lazar.

"You didn't mention there were lilies in the arrangement because of Colette." It wasn't a question so he didn't phrase it as such. "You didn't want her knowing about them. Why?"

"My reason for not divulging that information goes beyond not wanting her to know it."

"You didn't want her discussing your father."

"I didn't want her discussing _your_ father," she corrected. "She was waiting for the opportunity to do so. I denied her it."

"Why would she discuss my father?" His brow knit. "What does he have to do with Lazar sending my mother that bouquet?"

"Mal..." The faucet turned on. "It's the same bouquet delivered to my mother on the day of my father's funeral."

"What?" Malcolm forgot about his assessment with that revelation. "You're sure?"

_Of course, she is, idiot_, he mentally chastised. _There's nothing about that day she's forgotten_.

"I'm positive." She came back out with the full pot. "I remember mom asking me if I knew who sent it."

"There was no name on the card?"

"Just the initials J & M."

"J & M?" She nodded as Malcolm frowned. "That could be anyone."

"Well, I think the M stands for Martin."

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because I never told him about you."

It was his way of protecting Sorcha. Of keeping her from his father's notice. Of making sure he couldn't twist their relationship into something that benefited him.

"Oh, he knows about me, Mal."

"How?"

"Dad visited him once." Disgust mixed with disdain on her face. "After you told him you planned to apply to Quantico."

"Your dad..." Ian Corbin going to see his father didn't overly bother him. Many people visited his father. Most trying to understand how he became a sadistic killer. It was that they never told him that disturbed him. "He went and saw my father?"

"Yes, he did."

"Why?"

"Dad knew the FBI wouldn't look favorably on your application if they had knowledge about you having regular contact with your serial killer father." She sighed. "So, he went to ask him to end the visitations."

"And my father refused." Not that that came as much of a surprise. Martin Whitly had not responded favorably to his decision to apply to Quantico. Considered it a waste of his time and talents. "Because that meant there'd be no more visits."

Something Malcolm had not decided to end on his own despite Gil, his mother, and the Corbin's encouraging him to do so.

"He also revealed to Dad that he knew about you and me." Shock rolled through Malcolm. For a moment, he could do nothing but stand there and stare at her. "He had pictures of us together on campus, at the coffee shop we used to frequent, even at my parents house." Malcolm watched her place the pot on the burner, thoughts chaotic, and emotions conflicted. "He was having you watched by somebody." She glanced at him. "I think it was Lazar."

"His name doesn't start with a J."

"You said yourself that Paul Lazar is an alias he's using."

"J could be another one."

"Yes." She pulled two bags of tea from the container and set them in mugs. "Or it could be the letter to his real first or last name."

As much as Malcolm didn't want to admit it, to consider it, he had to concede there was every possibility Sorcha was right. He wouldn't put much passed his father. _Not after the Quartet_.

"We need to tell this to Gil." He steadied himself for the reaction his next words would cause. "And Colette."

"I won't help that woman."

"Sorch..."

"I won't help that woman, Mal. I won't," she repeated, tone firm. "You? Gil? Detectives Powell and Tarmel? Absolutely. She can whistle dixie."

"She's here to help catch Lazar."

"Then let Miss High and Mighty figure out how to catch him." She snatched the pot out soon as it finished and poured hot water into the mugs. "She believes she's the better profiler. Let her prove it."


	10. Chapter 10

"I can't believe you're making me watch this movie."

"Making you?" Sorcha snorted a laugh. "You were the one who suggested it."

"I suggested something that'd take our minds off what's going on with Lazar."

"And then said let's watch 'Downton Abbey'."

"You're the Downton fan, not me."

"Oh, please," Sorcha scoffed. "You were the one who got me into Downton."

"Did I?" Malcolm didn't remember it like that. "No, it was Ainsley who was into the show. Not me."

"Yes, she was." She tipped her head against his shoulder. "But it was you who called to ask if I had watched it and said I should if I hadn't."

"You and Ainsley were telling me I needed to find things that were not about murder, serial killers or relating to crime. Well," he said lightly, "this is definitely not about murder."

"Or serial killers."

"That, too."

"There _are_ crimes involved, though..."

"They're not the sort of crimes I typically find myself being brought in to help solve."

"That's true."

They resumed watching the movie. Malcolm found himself slowly relaxing, as much as he ever allowed himself to, anyway, and enjoying the movie. It was a return to how things were when they were in school. Decompressing after a long week of tests, papers, presentations, and lectures by watching movies. It was all...

_Normal_, he realized as Sorcha set her hand atop his. _As close to normal as I've ever been, anyway_. When he was with Sorcha he wasn't the son of the Surgeon or the guy with a weird obsession for murder and serial killers. Malcolm found himself existing in the moment. Enjoying the simplicity of doing things other people did. To just… _being_.

Something he hadn't allowed himself since coming home.

"Well," Sorcha said when the movie ended. "That was better than I hoped it'd be given what people had to say about it."

"I'm surprised you and your mother didn't go see it when it came out."

"Mom was sick when we planned on going."

Malcolm's heart thudded against his ribcage as memories of times when Jackie or Ian had been too sick to do things took over his mind. He couldn't lose someone else he cared about. Not after everything that happened the last few months. The only thought that cut through the white noise filling his head was Sorcha would have told him if it was something serious. _She wouldn't keep something like that from me_.

"She was sick?"

"It was a bad case of food poisoning."

Malcolm breathed out a small sigh of relief. He dealt with food reactions often enough to know how unpleasant they could be.

"Why didn't you go after she felt better?" Sorcha traced a heart pattern on the back of his hand. Malcolm smiled, recognizing it for what it was: a stall tactic. One she used when she wanted to distract him from a particular train of thought. Not going to work this time. "Why, Sorcha?"

"It's not—"

"Why, Sorcha?"

She heaved a sigh but finally relented.

"Because everything with Robert finally came to a head."

"Meaning you found out who his next victim was going to be."

"Yes." Sorcha picked up the remote and shut off the television. "Stopping him became my only thought and concern after that."

"You should have called me."

"I told you, I couldn't. He was monitoring who I spoke too, what I said, what I wrote to them. I had to do things as I did them to make sure the outcome was the one I wanted: you finding me and stopping him."

_She put all her faith in me_, Malcolm thought as she set the remote on the nightstand. _On me figuring out the clues she included in her manuscript and finding her before_...

He didn't finish that thought. He couldn't. Just thinking about losing Sorcha caused a tremor to rattle from his fingers into his wrist. He buried his hand under his knee to keep her from noticing it. He didn't want anything to interrupt them. Not when the door was finally open for them to discuss the elephant following them around like a lost puppy for the last few weeks.

"Sorch, we have to talk about Robert. We can't avoid it any longer."

"I know." She tucked her hair behind her ears and heaved a sigh fraught with uncertainty, unease, and a hint of something more. Something Malcolm couldn't easily identify. "I just don't know where to start really."

"Why don't you start from the beginning?"

_Start by telling me how you didn't figure out he was a serial killer when you met him. I know you had to see what he was. There's no way you couldn't have seen it. _

"Do you really want me to start at the beginning, Mal?"

He frowned. "Yes, I do." _Why wouldn't he?_ he wondered.

"So, you want me to start by talking about Harvard?" Sorcha got up to walk to the window. "Or maybe you'd prefer me to start with after Dad revealed he had cancer and you joined the bureau after graduating from the academy?" She glanced back at him with eyes that were dark and stormy. "Or do you want to jump straight into talking about when I met Robert?"

Malcolm wasn't sure what either their years at Harvard or Ian Corbin's cancer revelation had to do with Robert. He remembered those years as being good ones. Not perfect. Not by any means. He had his good days and bad. So did Sorcha. They were good days still. Some of his happiest days were from his days at Harvard, in fact.

_And after_, he realized. There were a lot of good times after they graduated Harvard despite Ian Corbin's cancer diagnosis, Jackie's illness, and Sean Corbin coming home from Iraq wounded.

"What does Harvard or your father have to do with Robert?"

"Because what happened between us at Harvard is what led me to doing what I did." She turned to look back out the window. "As for Dad? Well, he's why what happened between us, happened."

"What you did?" Malcolm stared at her incredulously. "You put a stop to a man who was torturing, raping and murdering women."

"Yes, I did," she agreed with a slight nod. "I wouldn't have, though, if I wasn't trying to create a murder case for you to solve."

"What do you mean you created a murder case for me to solve?"

"It's here, Mal." Sorcha walked over to where some spiral notebooks sat next to her iPad on the table. "All of it."

"What is?"

"The entire story. From my plot outline, cast of characters, research notes, all of it." She curled her fingers stop the cover of the first notebook. "Every damming word of it for you to read."

"Sorch—"

"I started to plot this after we saw each other at that summer soirée your mother invited me too." That wasn't surprising to Malcom. He used to tease her about how she was plotting her next story before she finished the one she was working on. "Decided the female lead needed to be in a complicated relationship with a criminal profiler who also happened to be the son of a serial killer." She laughed hollowly. "Sound familiar?"

"Me?" Temper surged but he rejected it. Sorcha wouldn't betray him like that. She'd discuss using him as a focus of a character in one of her stories, first. Same as she discussed the killers she decided to feature and elements of the cases. "You were writing about me? About the Surgeon?"

"The character was only similar to you in that he was a criminal profiler with a father who was a serial killer."

"It's still close to reality," Malcolm said, an edge to his tone. "Too close."

"You're right, it is." She sent him a look filled with misery and guilt. "All I can say is I'm sorry."

"Why did you do it?"

"I'm still trying to work that out." She heaved a sigh. "All I know is I started writing a true crime story and somewhere along the way decided to make it a true crime complete with a serial killer."

"Do you realize how that sounds?" Because it didn't sound like her. Sorcha didn't have hybristophilia. She wasn't prone to any paraphilia. She could differentiate between fantasy and reality. She wasn't looking to gain a celebrity status. Quite the opposite was true. "Sorch—"

"I know what it sounds like, Mal." Sorcha closed her eyes. More a long blink than anything else. "I also think that my subconscious decided that giving you a case to solve was the only way to bring you back into my life."

"You've always been in my life. We—"

"Fell apart after Dad and Jackie."

Malcolm's brow creased. "Fell apart?"

"Yes, fell apart." She rest her head against the windowpane. "Neither of us knew how to cope with our losses and we didn't pull together as normal people do when they face something like death. So, you buried yourself in murder and serial killers while I focused on helping Sean get better and writing. We created a bubble to protect us from the ugliness of reality."

"We still saw each other," he pointed out. "We talked. Texted. Emailed."

"Yes, we saw each other when I would fly to Washington for press junkets or appearances." Sorcha moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Keeping distance between them. _Guilt_? _Or fear?_ Malcolm couldn't be sure which. "Or whenever we looked up and remembered that the other existed." Her fingers inched to her wrist, the one where her charm bracelet used to rest, but stopped before making contact. As if she only just remembered that it was gone. Taken as a trophy by a man who meant to take her life. "Everything we had at Harvard? What we slowly built? Grief tested it. It tested us." She lifted her eyes to his. "And we failed, Mal."

"We were— are friends."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Even Detective Tarmel doesn't buy that."

No, JT didn't believe that they were simply friends. She was right about that. He made his thoughts perfectly clear in the car ride to the hotel, in fact. If one counted his repeated shakes of the head and the grumbles beneath his breath as verbal cues to his thoughts.

"I've never been any good at these sorts of things."

He wasn't any good in social settings at all, really. Not that he needed to tell Sorcha that. She was more than aware of how awkward he could be when he was among people and having to act as people expected.

"You're even worse when it comes to interpersonal relationships." A faint smile curved her lips. "One of us has to admit what everyone is saying is true, though. And since I'm the one who hunted up a serial killer for you to bring to justice? I guess it's gonna have to be me who says it."

"Says what?"

"They're right, Mal. We aren't just friends. We're much more than friends. The question, though, is what are we?"


	11. Chapter 11

"We were supposed to be back at the precinct twenty minutes ago, city boy."

"This won't take more than two minutes," Bright said as he made his way towards a store entrance. "I just need to pick up the charm bracelet I put on hold this morning."

Gil suspected that buying a new one would be what the kid would do once he discovered what happened to Sorcha's charm bracelet. It was classic Bright really, conveying his feelings through little trinkets and gifts. Gil had many items given to him over the years that expressed what Bright couldn't say verbally.

_Something else Martin Whitly stole from his son_, he thought, a surge of white-hot anger streaming through him. Gil banked it, as he typically did, before following Bright into the store.

"Are you sure Sorcha wants another charm bracelet?" he asked as he removed his sunglasses. "I'm under the impression she doesn't want another one."

_Especially if it's like the one in a plastic bag in the evidence room_. Gil didn't say that out loud, though. If Bright was true to form he'd pick something that didn't share any connection with the previous bracelet.

"Sorcha said she doesn't want another one," Bright told him as he weaved through customers and display cases, "but I know she does."

"How do you know she wants one when she says she doesn't?"

"She keeps reaching for it."

"That's just habit, kid."

"It's what she reaches for when she needs comfort or is having an anxiety attack."

It was on the tip of Gil's tongue to point out that what Sorcha was really reaching for was Bright. He didn't point it out to him. The kid wouldn't believe him if he did. No, the only way to get Bright to see the truth about his relationship with Sorcha was to give him the facts and let him put it together for himself.

"Sorcha's worn that bracelet for how long now? Ten years? Twelve?"

"Eleven." Bright looked at him over one shoulder. "I gave it to her eleven years ago. Why?"

"That's a long time for a girl to wear something."

"That's why I want to give her a new one."

"Because she wore the other one for so long?"

Only silently did he ask, _Or because you're afraid she doesn't know how you feel without it_?

"Because he took it from her."

The way he said it, though, that small, verbal explosion triggered memories of other times when Gil heard him use that tone. He'd have to keep a close eye on the kid. _Last thing we need is him giving Swanson any more ammunition to use against him_. For now, he switched tactics, hoping to get Bright to see what he couldn't.

"He took that charm bracelet from you, too."

A small, pensive frown creased Bright's forehead. "What?"

"He took it from you, too, Bright."

"No," he refuted with a shake of his head. "He didn't."

"Yes, he did." Gil stepped towards him and dropped his voice. "That charm bracelet means as much to you as it does Sorcha." Of that, Gil had no doubt. "Him taking it from her was like him taking it from you."

"This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

"Everything Robert Harwood did to Sorcha he also did to you."

"She was his victim, Gil, not me."

Denial or stubbornness. Gil couldn't be sure which one was preventing Bright from seeing what everyone else did. Much of it came down to the blind spot Bright tended to have when it came to things of this nature. _One more thing Martin Whitly stole from his son_, Gil thought bitterly.

It wasn't just Bright's ability to openly express his love for the people in his life that Martin Whitly stole from him. It was also his confidence. His self-worth. Parts of his identity. The kid may have changed his name to try todistance himself but he still saw himself as his father's son.

"Bright." He set a hand on Bright's shoulder before pointing out what he seemed incapable of seeing for himself. "You're a co-victim because you care about her."

Bright absorbed that silently. Then he surprised Gil when he said, "He could have taken her from me," in a voice that throbbed with a wealth of repressed emotion. "If I had returned home five minutes later, I'd have missed the courier as he tried to deliver her package to me." He released a shuddering breath that hurt Gil to hear. "She would be dead if I hadn't gone home early for a change."

The kid barely kept it together in the hospital. Gil didn't care to think about what emotional mess he'd dissolve into if something happened to Sorcha.

"You found her before he could kill her."

Despite him telling Bright to stay back. To wait. To let him and the others investigate, first.

"I might not have gotten there in time," was his soft reply. "That's the point."

"You did, though, and that's what matters." Bright looked like he was about to say more but a group of women came over to investigate the items on display in the case they stood next to. "Go pick up your gift so we can head back to the station."

They didn't talk again until they were back in the car.

"Are you giving her the bracelet before she goes to spend Christmas with her family?"

"No." Bright slid the small box into his jacket pocket. "Christmas."

"I thought she was spending Christmas with her family?"

"She's spending Christmas Eve with her family but Christmas Day we're spending together."

Gil bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying what he wanted to say. _The kid has to figure it out for himself_, he told himself.

"How did you manage to get out of Christmas with your mother?"

"I didn't," he said with a frown. "I'm under orders to attend dinner tomorrow night."

"It's a small price to pay for having Christmas with Sorcha."

"We spent Christmas together last year."

Gil's eyebrows shot up. "She spent Christmas with you?"

"And New Years."

"She didn't spend them with Robert?"

"No." His brow furrowed. "She never brought him with her during any of her trips to Washington."

"She went to Washington to see you, kid. That's why she didn't bring him."

"No." Bright's eyes closed. A long blink. One he used when he needed to keep his thoughts and feelings from becoming visible. "That's not why she didn't bring him with her."

"Then why didn't she bring him?"

Gil had his own suspicions about why Sorcha didn't bring Robert Harwood with her to Washington. _And the biggest reason is Bright_. He was curious what Bright thought was her reason, though.

"I'd have known what he was the moment I met him."

If he placed a large amount of money on that as Bright's reason for why Sorcha didn't bring Robert to Washington with her, he'd be able to retire in comfort. Gil heaved a sigh and shifted in his seat to face Bright.

"Yes, you'd have known what Robert Harwood was the moment you met him." That he couldn't deny. Bright was an exceptional profiler. It was one of the reasons he wanted the kid as part of his team. "She didn't bring him with her because of that, though."

"What other reason is there for her not bringing him with her?"

"How about she didn't want him interfering in your time together." The kid rolled his eyes at that. As Gil expected he would. Simple logic wasn't simple with Bright. "You're the one she wants to be with, kid."

"Of course," he replied. "We're friends."

"You're more than friends."

_Even JT has been calling you out on this every chance he gets_.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Frustration throbbed in his voice. Rippled across his face. "We're just friends. That's it."

Stubborn or simply in denial. Gil honestly wasn't sure if it wasn't a mixture of both at this point. _Give Bright a crime scene and he can see what happened in a matter of seconds. When it comes to himself? He's blinder than a bat._

"Kid, why do you think you bought her that charm bracelet?"

"I told you it's because he-"

"Took it from her," Gil finished with a nod. "But why does it matter so much that he took it? It's a charm bracelet. Not an engagement or wedding ring."

"It was special to her."

"And to you."

Bright averted his eyes. A clear indicator that the bracelet meant more to him than he was ready or willing to admit.

"Gil-"

"Let me ask you a question, kid. And I want you to think about the answer before you give it. Okay?"

Bright hesitated but nodded before saying, "Okay."

"If you ran into Sorcha instead of that woman, Eve, would you have asked her on a date?"

Bright's mouth opened and then closed. His brow creased. His eyes in the glass had that lost and confused look.

"I don't know," he finally admitted with a sigh. "I've never thought about it."

"Maybe because Sorcha has made things too easy for you all these years."

Bright looked at him, one brow arched.

"What do you mean?"

"She knows you're not especially good at things like dating."

A faint smile touched Bright's lips.

"I'm an acquired taste as you keep saying."

"And Sorcha acquired a taste for you at Harvard."

"Maybe." Bright tilted his head to the side. "How does that explain her making things easy for me?"

"She's been the one steering things between you all these years."

"How?"

"By picking things like staying in and watching movies," Gil said. "Going for walks in the park or driving to nowhere. Taking martial art classes. Rock climbing and bungee jumping." Which hadn't made him happy to discover. "Visiting museums and exhibits that you both find interesting."

"We've done that since we met, though."

"Exactly, kid." Gil set a hand on his shoulder. "You've been dating without dating."

"We haven't been dating, though."

"Haven't you?"

Bright's contemplative expression told Gil he was at least thinking about what he said. Would he admit to it? Gil had a feeling he wouldn't. Not yet, anyway.

"She was with someone else. No," Bright corrected before Gil could reply. "Not _someone_ else. A serial killer. One she tracked down for the sole purpose of creating a murder case for me to solve."

Gil hadn't realized that when he encouraged Sorcha to talk with Malcolm about Robert Harwood that she'd opt to tell him _that_.

"She didn't create the case," he said. "Robert Harwood already had thirteen bodies under his belt by the time they met."

"That doesn't make it any better."

"She didn't know he was a serial killer, kid."

"How couldn't she?" Bright brushed his hair out of his face. "That's what I don't understand. How couldn't she know what he was?"

It was on the tip of Gil's tongue to point out that his mother didn't know that his father was a serial killer until Bright turned him in but he didn't. _That's opening wounds that haven't managed to heal._

"She couldn't see it until Robert slipped up. Then," he said as Bright sighed, "when she could no longer ignore the truth she did what she needed to stop him."

"She was writing a story about it, Gil."

"That's just it, kid." He buckled his seatbelt before starting the car. "It was a story."

"One that came true."

"The ending to Sorcha's story had her dying." He glanced over at Bright. "Yours is how you want to end it."


	12. Chapter 12

Gil's words stayed with Malcolm for the rest of the day. Was it possible he was right? Had he and Sorcha been essentially dating since Harvard but he was blind to it? _It's not out of the realm of possibility_, he realized as he sifted through paperwork.

He largely avoided getting involved with anyone over the years because of his fear of hurting them while he was in the grips of one of his night terrors. He came close to hurting Eve and he hadn't been asleep.

No, he hadn't been asleep, he realized, brow furrowing.

He just wasn't sure what he had been.

Sorcha found a way to not only deal with his night terrors, but his hallucinations, as well. She also didn't get weirded out by his obsessive need for a murder to keep himself sane.

Gil talked about them doing things like staying in and watching movies. Going for walks. Taking martial art classes. Rock climbing. Visiting museums and exhibits. That was only the beginning of what he and Sorcha had done over the years. Things that until now he simply considered as means of coping with stress and the assortment of other things they dealt with in their lives.

Things he thought people who were friends did but which he had to now concede could just as easily be things couples did, too.

Memories — good ones for a change — played through Malcolm's mind as he sat there in the dark interrogation room. Times he let himself forget about after he joined the FBI. Things that became buried beneath his mountain of repressed memories and assorted traumas.

Things he never talked with Gil about because they weren't the sort of things that one discussed with someone they considered a parent or mentor.

Moments, Malcolm realized now, his heart twisting in his chest, that became fewer and farther between the more he immersed himself in life at the bureau. Weekend visits became Sorcha flying down once a month. Then it became one weekend every three months. Every six. Then they started only seeing each other at Christmas and their birthdays.

When she suggested they make plans to go away he made excuses for why he couldn't arrange the time off. Why he refused, he couldn't say. It wasn't like he didn't want to spend time with her. Or that he didn't enjoy seeing her. The time they spent together was some of the happiest of his life, in fact.

That's why it made no sense to him how two people who spoke on the phone all the time, emailed constantly, texted almost daily, snap-chatted on weekends or his days off couldn't seem to manage to see each other more than a few times a year.

_Mother's soirée was the catalyst,_ he realized with a pang. _She wanted me to stay with her but I left because I got a call about a case_.

Guilt burned in Malcolm's stomach as the events from that night played over and over in his mind.

Shame bowed his shoulders.

Trembled in his fingers.

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut as the dark things inside his mind laughed and jeered at him. At the fool he was. Because it was his fault that she sought out a serial killer. That she placed her life and well-being in the hands of a monster. _And the reason she did it was because she knows homicide is the only thing keeping me sane. _

"Some reason your skinny ass is sitting here in the dark?"

Malcolm jerked at hearing JT's voice. He blinked open his eyes and stared at him.

"I was just..." He moved his hand towards the notepad in front of him. "Making notes about the case."

"Yeah, you were just making notes about the case." JT snorted what almost sounded like a laugh. "Right."

Malcolm tilted his head to the side to stare at him curiously.

"You don't think I was making notes about the case?"

"Bro, I know the look on your face." JT lumbered towards a chair. "Seen it enough times to recognize it for what it is."

"I have a look?" That intrigued Malcolm. "What sort of look?"

"The kind that says a woman's involved."

"Ah, yes, well." Malcolm reached for the bottle of water he grabbed earlier but hadn't opened. "You are not wrong. A woman is most definitely involved."

_Only, I'm the cause of the problem, not her._

"Pretty sure I know which one, too." JT set some files on the table before taking a seat. "The one weird as you."

"You're two for two."

JT shook his head and grumbled, "Keep telling you she's the one you should be with."

"Yes, well, I've recently become enlightened to the fact I have been dating but not dating Sorcha all this time."

One of JT's brow lifted slightly. "Did I miss a memo about hell freezing over?"

"No." A small smile touched Malcolm's lips. He had learned to appreciate JT's brusque manner of speaking. "And pigs haven't suddenly started flying on their own, either, I assure you."

JT snorted what sounded like another laugh as he leaned back in his chair.

"So, what made you finally see things?"

"Let's just say I've had time to properly examine the facts and come to the realization that you, and everyone else, are right."

"Shame you didn't realize this before you asked that Eve chick out."

He wished he had realized it, too. It'd have saved him from the humiliation of what happened in his apartment that night.

"I admittedly am terrible in the dating area."

Something he essentially admitted to JT when he asked him for advice on where to take Eve on a first date.

"You are beyond terrible, bro." JT's lips screwed up into a smirk. "And should never play pool again."

"I think I can learn how to play with practice."

"Tally said the same thing after you left." JT heaved a soft sigh. "Told me to invite your weird ass to come and play again with us sometime."

"Really?" Warm pleasure filled Malcolm. It wasn't often that he got invited places. Most people tended to avoid him because of his odd habits. That made Tally's invitation all the more precious. "She really wants me to come and play pool with you again?"

"Yeah, she does." JT sent him a pointed look. "Long as you don't profile anybody again."

"Trust me, I learned my lesson that night."

He learned more than one lesson that night.

"Be different with your girl, anyway."

"Oh, Sorcha will definitely stop me before I get started."

"Yeah, starting to like her more and more."

From JT that was high praise.

"I have to figure out how to apologize to Sorcha before I can ask her to play pool."

"Not that hard to do."

"This is me, remember?"

"Right." JT grunted. "Bring her flowers."

"Flowers?" Malcolm frowned. "Why flowers?"

"They're a peace-offering or an ice breaker." JT reached for one of the files on the table. "Take your pick."

Malcolm considered what JT said in silence. Sorcha liked flowers. _With the exception of lilie,_ he amended as a phone rang outside the interrogation room. Roses were her favorites. Especially two-toned one. He could stop at one of the shops near his apartment and pick up a bouquet.

That decision made, he reached for the pen he discarded earlier to try to get some work done. Before he got started, he looked over at JT.

"JT?"

"Hm?" JT didn't look up from the file he was going over. "What?"

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." He lifted his eyes to Malcolm's. "Just do me a favor."

"Anything."

"Don't blow it."

Given his track record wasn't the greatest in this area, the likelihood he would blow it was exceptionally high. That thought stuck with him after he left the precinct and headed home. It continues to plague him as he stopped to buy two roses — one yellow with red tips and one white with pink tips — from a local vendor.

As he made his way towards his building, Malcolm wondered if it wasn't better to leave things between him and Sorcha as they were until Paul Lazar was dealt with. He discarded that thought. Saw it for what it was: an excuse to avoid having what was a long overdue conversation with Sorcha.

Not that finding and stopping Lazar wasn't his top priority. There just was more to life than murder and serial killers. At least, that's what Gil kept telling him. The smell of cookies baking enveloped him soon as he entered his apartment. It gave Malcolm a surprising, but pleasant jolt. Drug up more good memories. Other times when he returned to cookies or something else baking.

"Sorcha?"

She peeked over the top of the counter.

"Mal?" Her brow drew together. "You're home earlier than you usually are."

He didn't tell her that he left because he wanted to see her. Talk to her. Apologize for everything. There was time to get into all that. He wasn't going anywhere. This time, he amended, hand straying to the pocket where the box containing her new charm bracelet was.

"What are you doing here?"

Not that he didn't have a good idea about what she was doing based on the glorious smells assaulting him at that moment. Even he couldn't resist fresh-baked cookies. Especially if they were chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin.

"Mom roped me into baking this year and I was sick of my hotel room, anyway, so I came here." A brief flash of uncertainty crossed her face. "I didn't think you'd mind."

"I don't." He shed his jacket as he walked into the kitchen. Set it in one of the chairs with the roses. "Why are you down there?"

"I'm searching for a pie pan." Before he could tell her he didn't have any she smiled and said, "I already know you don't have one."

"Not a big baker here."

"The saying 'no shit, Sherlock' comes to mind." Sorcha rose to her feet with a sigh. "I'll just call your mom and see if I can borrow one."

Malcolm didn't immediately reply. He was too fascinated by the flour dusting her nose and cheeks. More streaked across her forehead and disappeared into the hair piled on top of her head.

She wore one of his shirts, he realized, pulse quickening. Flour dusted the collar, as well as the column of her throat. More spotted the front. Sunshine chirped behind him but Malcolm couldn't tear his gaze away from Sorcha. _Is this what normal feels like? What it looks like_? He didn't know but he liked it.

"Mal?" He lifted his eyes to Sorcha's. Saw the concern stamped on her face. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

He was far from fine but she already knew that…

"If you say so." She turned to grab a set of oven mitts and he saw she had a flour hand print on the back of the shirt. How she managed that one, he didn't know. "I made minestrone for dinner. Figured it was the one thing I'd convince you to eat without too large a complaint."

"Will there be cookies for after?"

"Maybe." She smiled at him over her shoulder. "Might even let you steal one before dinner if you help me get the rest in the oven."

"Deal."


	13. Chapter 13

"Are you still looking for an apartment?"

Sorcha looked up from the book — _A Christmas Carol because why not_? he thought with some amusement — she had been reading to him.

"Yes?" A frown puckered her brow. "Why?"

"I..." His confidence swallowed by a flood of nerves, Malcolm sighed and mumbled, "I was just wondering if you found one."

"You were just wondering?" Doubt and amusement coated her tone. She angled her head to look at him. "Any particular reason _why_ you were wondering?"

Sunshine chirped and fluttered her wings, providing Malcolm with a needed reprieve. Why he couldn't simply say that he'd like her to stay with him alluded him. It wasn't like they hadn't lived together before. _It's not like we aren't essentially living together now_, he reasoned as he gently stroked Sunshine's chest. However, the words to say that evaded him.

"I just didn't know if you found one you liked."

"Not yet, no." She opened the book to the page she had been reading before his question. "Want me to continue?"

"How about watching a movie instead?"

Anything to distract him from his inability to tell her his feelings.

"There's a lovely Hitler documentary on Amazon Prime that I have been meaning to check out some quiet evening."

He sent her an amused look. "I thought we agreed no serial killers for Christmas?"

"Hitler's not a serial killer." She closed the book and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table. "He's a genocidal maniac."

"Just a higher class of serial killer."

"Okay, fine." She reached over to stroke Sunshine's chest with the tip of her finger. "How about _It's A Wonderful Life_ or _Lady and the Tramp_?"

"You cry when you watch _Lady and the Tramp_."

"Uh huh." She sent him a wicked grin. "So you'll hold my hand."

He blinked at her. "You watch it for that purpose?"

"I watch sappy old movies with _you_ for that purpose."

How had he missed these things? That's what Malcolm couldn't understand. He was a profiler. Experienced in reading human behavior. He should have picked up on all of Sorcha's subtle clues. He hadn't, though. _And look where that's gotten us_.

"How about we watch your favorite Christmas movie?"

One brow arched. "_Mickey's Christmas Carol_?"

"Yes."

"But you hate it."

"You hate going to the ballet," he pointed out as Sunshine puffed out her chest and ruffled her wings, "but have gone every time I've been ordered to attend a performance."

"You in a tuxedo was enough of a reason to set aside my dislike."

"I'll keep that in mind next month."

"Oh, no." Her nose wrinkled. "There's not a performance coming up…"

"Yes, and my mother has already informed me I am attending under pain of death."

"Can't you make Ainsley go?"

"Ainsley is going."

"Oh, well." She stroked his cheek with her thumb. "Long as we Musketeers can share the misery…"

Sunshine chirped and walked up his chest.

"You ready to go back in your cage?" She fluttered her wings. A clear sign for _yes_. Malcolm cradled her against his chest as he sat up. "Okay, I'll put you back."

"I'll load Disney Plus while you're putting her away."

"Okay." He got to his feet and slowly walked over to Sunshine's cage. "There you go," he said as he gently placed her back in her cage. "Safe and sound."

Happy chirping indicated her appreciation. Malcolm smiled as he checked her food cup to make sure it was full.

"Your mom is wrong, yanno."

"My mother wrong about something." He sent a smile at her from over his left shoulder. "Imagine that."

A pillow hit him in the middle of his back.

"Your sarcasm is unnecessary."

"Sorry." Malcolm bent to pick the pillow up before returning to the couch. "What is my mother wrong about?" A small smile tugged at his lips. "This time?"

"You barely being able to care for Sunshine." She set her iPad next to her and held a hand out for the pillow. "You take good care of her. And she," she said as he handed the pillow to her, "takes care of you."

"I care more for her well-being than my own."

"I know." She set the pillow in her lap and indicated for him to lay back down. "That's the one thing that annoys me the most."

"There's only one thing about me that annoys you?" He figured the list of things that annoyed her about him would be as long as his arm. "I'm shocked."

"Oh, there are other things," she assured him as he laid back down. "They're just not as worrisome as your refusal to worry about you is."

"It's not a refusal..."

"You live on Earl Grey and Dum-Dum's or licorice when I'm not here."

"I also drink sparkling water."

"Beside the point." She playfully flicked his nose with her finger. "You place yourself in dangerous positions because you don't value your life as much as those of us who love you do."

"When I place myself in dangerous situations, I'm not thinking about me." Her harrumph made him smile. It was her usual response to statements like that. "I'm thinking about how to stop a killer at that moment. I'm thinking about them. The victims. Their families."

"You're repaying your father's victims by risking yourself to help others." Sorcha cupped his cheek in her palm. "You've taken on his debt because you feel that if you had told sooner that others might not have become victims."

Malcolm considered her words as she smoothed her thumb across his cheekbone.

"The rational part of me knows you're right."

"But the irrational part rejects what I'm saying."

"Yes." Malcolm reached up to cover her hand with his. "I know it doesn't make sense but..."

"You're empathy and compassion are what separate you from your father." Her fingers slid into the hair at his temple. "They're what make you a good man and excellent profiler."

"Not according to my former bosses." His lingering bitterness over his firing from the FBI hung in the air between them. "They felt my narcissistic tendency and my father's psychopathy were sufficient reason to fire me."

"They dismissed you to avoid any negative press or attention."

"It wasn't just one incident as Colette said." He sighed as her fingers sifted through his hair. "I had a history of them."

"And still had one of the highest success rates in the bureau." Warmth spread through him at the pride in her voice. On her face. "Dad would be so proud of you."

Thinking about Ian Corbin filled Malcolm with sadness. He wished he was there now. He could certainly use his help in figuring out who the girl in the box was and what role he played in what happened to her.

"I miss him."

"Me too." Her eyes strayed off into the distance. "I didn't realize how much until I started seeing Ed."

Malcolm's heart stopped beating for half a second. Nervous ticks shot through his fingers. Was everyone wrong? Had Sorcha decided to move on instead of wait for him to figure out what he wanted?

"Ed?"

"Edward Greene." She resumed combing her fingers through his hair. "My therapist."

"Your... therapist?" Relief poured through him only to be replaced by curiosity. "You're seeing a therapist?"

"Did you honestly think my mother, brother and sister-in-law would not order me to see one after finding out I was living with a serial killer?"

"They forced you?"

"No." She breathed out a sound that was a mixture of amusement and the sort of baffling frustration that came from dealing with family. Something Malcolm understood all too well. "They just heavily encouraged it."

"You agreed to go, though."

"I did." She stopped sifting her fingers through his hair and looked down at him. "Does it surprise you I'm seeing someone?"

"No," he quickly assured her. "Not at all."

Especially since he had his own reliance on Gabrielle.

"But?" Her lips twitched. "I smell a _but_ here."

"No, no but." He frowned at her snort. "What?"

"You're wondering if you're why I'm in therapy but are to afraid to ask because you fear the answer is yes."

"You should have joined the bureau."

"I didn't need to profile you to know what you're thinking."

"I don't always know what I'm thinking."

"That's because you're not okay."

Hearing those words spoken aloud rocked Malcolm to the core. He wanted to deny them, refute them, shrug them off with one of his patented flippant remarks.

This was Sorcha, though.

She wouldn't buy his denials or listen to any of the carefully worded phrases he used to cover up how not fine he was. She'd wave away his self-deprecating humor with a snort and a roll of her eyes.

Why?

Because she heard it all before.

Still, he struggled with admitting he wasn't okay. _Three simple words. They shouldn't be so hard to say_. Yet they were even more difficult than _I love you_ or _call for backup. _

"I'm a mess," he finally settled on.

"And that's okay." Her eyes met his. "That's the biggest thing I've learned in therapy. It's okay to _not_ be okay. To be a mess. To have a bad day."

"I'm a functional mess, at least."

She leaned down and instantly he was enveloped by that heady, intoxicating scent that was hers and hers alone. It settled and soothes him. As it always did.

"Yes, you are." She rest her forehead against his. "It's okay to reach out for help, though. To need comfort. Support. Companionship."

_Now, _he realized as she started to hum softly. Now would be the time to tell her that he wanted her to stay with him.

Before he could work up the courage, though, his phone buzzed.

"I'd place a bet on who it is," Sorcha joked as she passed his phone to him, "but we already know it's Gil."

Malcolm breathed out a soft sound as he answered.

"Gil." _Why did you have to call now_? "A murder?" He sat up as Sorcha snorted a laugh. "Where?" He took the pad of paper and pen she handed him and wrote the address down. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."


	14. Chapter 14

The picture of Ian Turner with his arm around the shoulders of a man with messy salt-and-pepper hair and a days worth of stubble along his jaw flashed Malcolm back to when he was eleven and sitting, alone, in an interrogation room. The officer left to watch him while his mother spoke with detectives told him to stay there while he went to see if she was finished.

Malcolm had done so, silently wishing he could be somewhere, _anywhere_ else. The door opened a few minutes later. His head snapped up, hoping to see his mother or even Officer Arroyo. Instead, a man in a rumpled suit entered the interrogation room. Malcolm recalled seeing him outside the house as they loaded his father into the police car that took him away.

The man had gotten in Officer Arroyo's face and yelled about the Surgeon being _his_ collar. Malcolm hadn't understood what the problem was. Why did it matter who arrested his father as long as he couldn't hurt any more people?

A sour odor wafted off the man as he walked towards him. Stale beer and cigarette smoke. As unforgettable to him now as Sorcha's perfume or Gil's aftershave.

"_Hey, Malcolm. Do you remember me?_" He placed a hand on the table. "_I'm Detective Owen Shannon_."

The detective seemed kind. Sympathetic even. However, Malcolm could tell it was all an act. That Owen Shannon wanted him to _think _he was there to help him, to help those his father hurt.

What he really came there to do was prove his own complicity in what his father did.

To name him as his accomplice.

See _him_ punished for his father's crimes.

"_Yeah, we just wanted to review your statement from the night your father was arrested._"

Malcolm didn't believe the detective. He didn't trust him. Something inside him told him he'd hurt him if he wasn't careful. He hunched his shoulders and pulled at the sleeves of his sweater to hide his fear.

"_I already told you everything I know_."

"_Yeah, but, uhm, here's the thing_." The detective placed his other hand on the table _"The__ cop on the scene said he heard you and your dad share some parting words_." Malcolm lifted wide eyes to Shannon's predatory ones. "_We're the same_." He leaned forward. _"__Why do you think your father said that_?" Those words played over and over. Mixed with the other voices he heard. A never ending loop of noise. _"__That's what I can't figure out_."

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to close out the images in his mind. To silence the voices. His hand, the one with the psychogenic tremor in it, shuddered. He tried to stop it by clasping it in his other hand but it didn't work.

"Hey, kid." Malcolm glanced up to see Gil standing beside his desk. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

That, in Malcolm's opinion, was an understatement. Owen Shannon was the last person he expected to find connected to this case.

The last person, outside his father or Paul Lazar he wanted connected to this case, in fact.

"I think I've found something," he told Gil. "A possible lead."

"Oh?" Gil perched on the edge of the desk. "What you find?"

He held the photograph up. "Detective Owen Shannon." His eyes met Gil's. "With Ian Turner."

"I remember Owen Shannon." Gil took the picture with a frown. "He made bad cops look like saints."

Malcolm didn't doubt it. His own encounter with the detective had left an undeniable mark on him. His hand shook as he again recalled Owen Shannon's face. The rage on it when he didn't tell him what he wanted to hear. The hate in his voice when he accused him of being his father's accomplice.

"I'm well aware how bad a cop Owen Shannon was."

Gil glanced at him, a thoughtful frown between his eyes. "He spoke to you after your father was arrested, didn't he?"

The detective did more than just speak to him. His tremor got progressively worse after Owen Shannon interrogated him. As if on cue, another one rattled from the tips of his fingers all the way into his wrists. Malcolm slid them into his lap to keep Gil from seeing how effected he was by his discovery.

Last thing he wanted to get into was that interrogation or Owen Shannon. Especially with Collette Swanson roaming around the precinct and looking for any reason to discredit him. She did enough damage when she kicked him out of the interrogation room while the rest of the officers and detectives on duty watched.

"Owen Shannon was Ian Turner's partner."

Gil's gaze sharpened with interest. "Are you sure?"

Malcom nodded. "Positive."

"Must have been before Turner moved up the ranks."

"Seems to me that if we're looking for someone with a motive that Owen Shannon has one."

"Owen Shannon was a bad cop." Gil handed the picture back to him. "But even I can't see him doing something like this."

"Jealousy is a powerful motivator."

"After all these years?" Gil shook his head. "Doesn't make sense. Why would he decide to go after Turner now?"

"Only one way to find out." Malcolm set the photograph back in the box. "We go ask him."

"Go ask who what?" Sorcha spoke from behind him. "And if it's anyone who could shoot, stab, bite or otherwise hurt you, the answer is no."

"Sorch!" Malcolm stood up so fast he almost pitched himself against the cubicle wall. Gil thankfully grabbed him by the shoulder before he could thoroughly humiliate himself. Malcolm straightened his jacket and sent a grateful smile at Gil before looking at Sorcha. "What are you doing here?"

An amused smile curved her lips. "I was in the neighborhood."

"You were in the neighborhood?" One brow tilted. "This is out of the way for you."

"The troubles worth it just to see the two most handsomest men on Christmas Eve."

"For that, you can take Bright with you to your family's." A smile played about Gil's mouth. "I'll even help you get him in the car."

Sorcha snorted a laugh. "As if he'd go."

"If Tally showed up looking like you and wanting me to go with her? I'd bounce in an instant," came from JT as he lumbered over to hand Gil some papers. He shot Malcolm an appraising look. "His skinny ass on the other hand..."

The retort on Malcolm's tongue died as Sorcha came around the corner of the cubicle. The dress she wore clung to her body, showed off her supple arms, the long line of her back, and her long, long legs. The color reminded Malcolm of the waters of Hanauma Bay. Beautiful erotic glimpses of pale skin, soft curves, delicate lines filled his head.

Desires, demands, things he ignored because he didn't deserve them called out to him. Beckoned him. Lured him towards a dark and dangerous web.

Her soft, husky laugh shattered those spindly webs. Malcolm looked at her just as the light caught the glimmer of the sapphires dangling from thin gold chains from her ears.

Another gift.

This time from a man whose absence was never more painfully felt than today.

His only complaint with how she looked was she wasn't wearing her charm bracelet. _I should give her new one to her now_, he thought as that heady, intoxicating scent so uniquely hers curled itself around him and tried to lure him back into fantasy.

"Mal, you okay?"

"Yeah…" Trying to find his scattered wits proved more difficult than he imagined. "It's just… you look beautiful."

"Imagine that." JT snorted what sounded like a laugh. "GQ knows how to compliment a lady." He shook his head. "Wait until Dani hears about this."

Malcolm frowned as he walked away. "Why do people think I don't know how to give compliments?"

"Because you typically don't," Gil said. "That's why."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "I give compliments all the time."

"Coached in psychological jargon." Gil squeezed his shoulder. "Which isn't always flattering to hear."

"I'm used to his using psychological jargon to express his feelings." Sorcha reached out to tuck a strand of his hair back behind his ear. "It's especially cute when he does it while he has that slightly dazed, dreamy expression. Course, it usually leads him to—"

"Why are you here?" Malcolm cut in before she could say exactly _what_ his dazed, dreamy looks could lead him into doing. He frowned as Gil chuckled. "I thought you were heading to your brother's?"

"I brought over the cookies and brownies we made last night before you got called in."

"Right. Sorry." Embarrassed heat flooded his cheeks. "I was supposed to bring them in with me this morning. I just—"

"Got caught up in your case." Sorcha's lips twitched. "I know. That's why I brought them. You've got your hands full enough with this case." Sadness filled her face. Dulled the sparkle that filled her eyes seconds before. "What a terrible thing to happen on Christmas."

"Murder doesn't understand things like holidays," Gil said. "And criminals never take a holiday."

"Believe me, I know."

"Your dad spent quite a few Christmases away from home, didn't he?"

"And my mom since she was a nurse."

"And here you didn't follow in either of their footsteps." Gil folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. "Shameful."

"Well, I redeemed myself." She sent a playful grin at Malcolm. "I went into the Bright babysitting business."

Gil hummed a soft laugh. "That's a lucrative business."

"He certainly keeps me busy."

Malcolm frowned at her. "I don't need a babysitter."

"This from the man who routinely has one bottle of sparkling water in his fridge."

"Not much of a cook here."

"Tell me about it." Sorcha heaved a long, drawn out sigh. "No pie pans. No baking racks. I had to run to Bed, Bath & Beyond for a hand-mixer and bowls."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "You did not."

"Wait until you see the sheets I bought." Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "Leopard print."

Malcolm wasn't sure whether he was amused or appalled. After a few seconds deliberation he decided he was neither. No, what he was, he realized with a small degree of horror, was _intrigued_.

"You bought me leopard sheets?"

"Silk, too." She sent him a saucy wink. "Very decadent."

If Sorcha was trying to distract him, she was succeeding.

A bit too well, in fact.

"Okay, time to go."

"I need to get going, anyway," Sorcha said as Gil chuckled again. "Sean wants to beat the traffic…" She made a face. "If that's possible."

"Sean's here?"

Malcolm had to admit that with Lazar making veiled threats towards his family and Sorcha, it brought him a small measure of comfort knowing Sean was with her. _Let Lazar try to get through him_.

He might land a few good blows, but he had a feeling Sean Corbin would give as good as he got.

"He's waiting in the car, actually." Sorcha took his hand in hers. "Come down and say hello."

He hadn't seen Sean in more than a year. Mandy and her mother in two. People as important to him as Gil and Jackie and his mother and sister. _Yet, I cut them out of my life and I don't know why_.

"You go on, kid," Gil told him as he turned to head to his office. "I'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes."

"I'll keep him out of trouble." Sorcha took his hand. "I promise."

"You deserve overtime pay," Gil called over his shoulder. "Because he can't go one day without getting into trouble."

Malcolm pulled Sorcha from the squad room before she could reply.


	15. Chapter 15

"_Why do you think your father said that_?" Those words played through his mind again as they exited the precinct. Mixed with the other voices. Added to the never ending loop of noise he couldn't shut off no matter how hard he tried. "_That's what I can't figure out_."

It wasn't something Malcolm could explain, either. He couldn't when he was eleven and most certainly couldn't now. His eyes traveled over the people walking by on the street, seeing them but also seeing what he always saw: fragments of things he didn't understand.

And a father he loved and loathed in equal parts telling him, "_we're the same_."

"Mal?" Sorcha's fingers squeezed his. "What are you seeing?"

"Nothing."

"Don't invalidate," she chided gently. "You have that glassy and unfocused look."

"It's what I always see," he finally admitted as a tremor rattled his fingers. "It never changes."

"Your father."

"Yes." He looked up at the hazy sky. "It wasn't this cold earlier."

He could tell by Sorcha's sigh she wasn't happy he changed the subject but she allowed it. Respecting his need for boundaries and privacy. People already knew enough about him now thanks to Ainsley. However, he was under no illusion she wouldn't broach this subject again when they were alone.

"Gonna snow tonight." That haunting scent of hers wrapped around him, teasing him, taunting him, tempting him. "Can feel it in the air."

"Stay with your family if it does," he said as he tried to get his rampaging thoughts and emotions under control. "Come home in the morning." He glanced over at her snort. "What?"

"I doubt it's gonna snow enough for that."

"The roads could still be icy."

"If it makes you feel better... I will call an Uber if the road conditions get that bad."

"Why don't you just stay with your family?"

"Because your mom will be disappointed if I don't come by for dessert."

"You told my _mother_ you'd come for dessert?"

Sorcha seemed almost amused by his reaction. He wished he could say he was. He wasn't exactly looking forward to Christmas dinner.

"I promised her I would, yes."

Malcolm frowned. "When did you promise her?"

_And why didn't you tell me about it_? Guilt swirled through him before that thought finished. Why hadn't she told him? Maybe because he hadn't seen or talked to her since the night before.

"After I asked to borrow pie pans and other things because you have none."

"Again, not a big baker here."

"No, shit, Sherlock." Sorcha sent him a teasing grin. "We are going to have to discuss your serious lack of kitchenware."

"I'll buy you whatever you need after Christmas." He already bought most of what she wanted before Gil called last night. He just didn't tell her. He wanted to see her surprise and pleasure when it all arrived. "Those extra two pies you baked are for tonight, aren't they?"

"Yes, Mr. Detective."

Malcolm sighed. "You're in a mood today."

"It's Christmas, Malcolm." She turned to face him. "A time to be happy. I know you're passingly familiar with the concept."

He rolled his eyes. "Not feeling particularly festive at this moment, thank you."

"Hey." Sorcha set her hand against his face and drew his gaze to hers. "Don't let Lazar or your father steal what happiness you have. They win if you do."

"They've already won," he said tiredly. "I'm brok—"

"Nope."

"Sorch..."

"You're not broken." She lifted her other hand to frame his face. Rubbed her thumbs over his cheekbones. "Just a little bit bent at the corners."

"I know you believe that." He closed his eyes. "But I can't be fixed, Sorch."

"This conversation should likely happen when we're not standing outside a police station..."

"But?" His lips twitched as he opened his eyes to look at her. "That's your _but_ voice."

"However," she said smugly. "I know you've mentioned Gabrielle has a more psychodynamic approach. I've always preferred Erickson, myself."

"I know." His hands drifted to her waist. Touching but not touching. "You wrote your thesis paper on Erickson's theory and how traumatic events effect the successful passage from one stage to the next."

"I wrote my thesis based largely on inspiration from you." Her lips curved. "Big shock, I know. My reasoning for that, though, was because I wanted to learn everything I could so I could help you."

"You have helped me."

"And will continue helping you. Especially after Ainsley's interview."

"I thought you weren't going to watch it?"

"Ains asked and I wanted to see what your father said. His physical reactions to her questions. So, I did. And I know you hate hearing this..." She blew out a breath. "But you're a victim, Mal. I knew that all the way back in school. I just didn't know how much of a victim you really are because we didn't know what we do now."

"The chloroform."

"And the camping trip," she added. "How it relates to the girl in the box."

"Not like my father or Paul Lazar have been forthcoming with information about either."

"No, they haven't been." she agreed with a slight nod. "Not that I'm surprised. It's a power play with your father. A dangling of the proverbial carrot. His way of keeping you coming back to see him."

Sorcha hadn't expressly stated it as of late, but Malcolm knew she was against him seeing his father. As invaluable a resource as Martin Whitly might be to understanding the mind of killers, he was a toxic presence in her opinion. One she felt he needed to get as far away from as possible.

"Believe me, I'm well aware my father is a master at manipulation."

"Oh, yes, he is." She reached out and straightened his tie. Her way of hiding her agitation and nerves. "Something you are, too. All psychologically trained people are. We have to be. Especially when dealing with things like serial killers. You have to fight smarter, not harder against men like Paul Lazar and Martin Whitly."

"You were reading Batman comics last night, I see."

"I introduced Sunshine to _The Dark Knight_. Gonna teach her to tweet ha ha ha."

Malcolm hummed a soft laugh. "You would."

"Hey, Batman is a hero traumatized by his parents death who responded to his tragedy by turning his pain into good." She skimmed her fingers over his cheek into his hair. "Kinda like someone else I know."

Malcolm scoffed at that comparison. "I'm nothing like Batman."

"Just as moody and stubborn as he is." She sifted her fingers through his hair, stimulating and soothing him at the same time. "And I know about all them secret ninja moves you have."

She managed to make him laugh. _Which is what she intended_, he realized as a cold breeze carried with it the heady mix of lavender and jasmine.

"You'll be the first to know if I ever decide to don a mask and run across rooftops."

"I better be." She draped her arms around his neck. Pressed close. "Otherwise, there'll be hell to pay."

_Now_, Malcolm decided as he stared into her bright eyes. _Now's the time to give her the charm bracelet. _It wasn't exactly where he originally planned to do it but something told him she'd find it perfect_._

"Sorch..."

"Can we stay like this for a few more minutes?" She rest her forehead against his. "Before you go off to chase bad guys and I get mobbed by my family asking where you are."

"Are your aunts going to be there tonight?"

"As will Father Malrooney."

"They don't still consider me husband material, do they?"

"Oh, yeah." She leaned her head back to smile at him. "Especially after the way you saved me from Robert."

He scoffed at that. "You saved yourself, Sorch."

"No, you saved me." She placed a soft kiss to his forehead. "And you stopped Robert from getting away."

A choice that resulted in him smelling worse than the subway. Dry cleaning that suit was no use. The stains and smells wouldn't ever come out. It was worth it, however. He wouldn't have her if he hadn't been there.

"Doesn't mean I'm any more husband material now than they thought I was back when we were in school."

Way he saw it? He was less husband material now.

"I think you're husband material."

Malcolm blinked rapidly. "What?"

"I said I think you're husband material."

"Sorcha—"

"Whether or not it will be me or someone else?" She continued. "Who knows." Those quick, clever fingers rubbed the back of his neck in slow, soothing circles. "What I do know is that I'm willing to take things slow. To see where this goes. If it doesn't go farther than this... well, I'm still your best friend. And I'm still going to be there to help you figure out what happened on that camping trip with the girl in the box."

Helpless, frustrated, all he could do was look at her. Why he couldn't simply tell her that he loved her was beyond him. Three words. Shouldn't be that hard to say. Yet for him it was harder than solving a homicide.

_Not successfully navigating the intimacy versus isolation stage of Erickson's theory could be one reason for why you suck at relationships_, his overeducated mind offered. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say when a familiar voice called out a suggestion.

"This is that point in the movie where you kiss her, bro."

Surprise and guilt at being caught with her almost had him leaping away from Sorcha. Only the ridiculousness of it kept him from doing so. He glanced over to see Sean sitting in the drivers seat of a white convertible.

"That's your dad's Mustang," he said.

"Technically, it's mine and yours." Sorcha touched his arm. "Dad left it to us."

"What?" He swung his surprised gaze back to hers. "Why?"

"As a reminder that all puzzles can be solved with hard work and determination." Her head tilted to the side. The sun caught the stones dangling from her ears and made them gleam. "And that we can fix anything so long as we work together."

"Some things can't be fixed."

"He didn't believe that anymore than I do."

"I know." He rest his forehead back against hers. "You got his stubbornness from him."

"He'd say I got it from Mom."

"Drawing the scene out now," came from the man in the car. "C'mon, it's not like you two don't know how to kiss. Seem to recall..."

"Sean!" Sorcha shot a furious glare at her brother. "Shut up!"

"What?" Sean sent her a lopsided grin. "Wasn't like I was gonna remind you about how I walked in on the two of you that week Mom and Dad were in Hawaii or anything..."

"I swear to God." Sorcha waved a fist at her brother. "I'm gonna brain you if you don't quit."

"Not in front of a police station," Gil said as he joined them. "Wait until you get home to brain him."

"On, I will," she swore as she sent another fulminating look at her brother. "And then I'll tell Mom about who really broke great-aunt Edna's vase."

"You swore not to tell her about that!"

"Yeah, well, you swore not to mention that week they were in Hawaii."

"Can we go?" Malcolm all but begged Gil. "Before any more embarrassing secrets get revealed?"

"Don't want secrets revealed, kid?" A teasing smile flitted across Gil's lips. "Don't do things that are embarrassing."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind from now on." He looked back at Sorcha. "You'll be careful driving back to the city tonight?"

Sorcha snorted a laugh. "This from the man who has been shot at, bitten by a snake, almost had a paralytic agent injected in him, and nearly crushed in a turnstile by a serial killer."

"Which is why I'm asking you to be careful."

Since being careful wasn't something he considered.

"I will be long as you will promise not to do anything stupid."

"I promise." Malcolm made to step back but hesitated. "I'll see you tonight."

"Yes, you will." Sorcha surprised him then by brushing her lips across his. A tease. A test. She then whispered, "next time, you kiss me," before turning to walk to the car.


	16. Chapter 16

Malcolm realized he broke his promise the second Owen Shannon parked across the street from a simple two-story house in the middle of the block. A swirl of guilt rolled through his already queasy belly as he stared through the window at what was the last physical known address of Paul Lazar.

_No, not Paul Lazar_, he mentally corrected as Shannon cut the engine and sat back to stare out the dirty windshield. _John Watkins_. The name of the man who spent the last few weeks tormenting him was John Watkins.

The name seared itself into his brain.

Why?

Because it represented the man who partnered with the Surgeon to torture and kill an unknown amount of victims. A man who changed his modus operandi once their partnership ended.

_Or did he_?

That thought played through Malcolm's mind as he studied the place where Watkins might still call home. Had Watkins changed how he killed people after the Surgeon was arrested or did his father use Watkins to hide his own?

Shannon said he believed his father had a cleanup guy. Someone who got rid of the bodies. Was that what Watkins did? Or was there more to their partnership than that?

Exactly what Watkins got from a partnership with his father, Malcolm didn't know. _The same_, he realized, brow furrowing, _could be said for his father_. Outside of having someone to control, feed his already overinflated ego, and potentially use to get rid of bodies, there was little benefit to a partnership between him and John Watkins.

So, why then had Martin Whitly worked with him?

What about John Watkins convinced his father to take him under his tutelage?

To teach him the tricks of the trade?

How long had they been working together?

"Thinking about why your old man partnered with someone so far beneath him socially?"

"It doesn't make any sense." Malcolm continued staring at the house, mind churning, gut twisting. "The risk of being discovered was exponentially higher working with Watkins than it was for my father to work alone. Why chance discovery? Especially when he went to great lengths to make sure I couldn't remember what he did."

Creating huge gaps in his memory in the process. He didn't need to add that part. He'd already told Shannon about his fragments of memories when the man confronted him hours ago. _That's two promises broken_, he realized with a pang. _May as well go for number three at this point._

"Martin Whitly believed he could talk his way out of what he did."

"Like all killers."

"Your dad thought his status as a world-class surgeon and your mom's money would buy his way out of prison."

"Which," Malcolm admitted with a pained sigh, "it did."

Thanks to a high priced defense attorney his mother called The Devil.

"Considering he's sitting in a plush cell in Claremont Psychiatric Hospital rather than Attica."

Shannon didn't need to add, _where he belongs_. It was an unspoken agreement between them that Martin Whitly didn't deserve to live the privileged life he did at Claremont.

"His lawyer pled mental disease and defect and got him mandated to Claremont."

Where he'd spend the rest of his life in quiet comfort, consulting on cases, and pursuing what other interests he chose. _It's not fair_, Malcolm realized as a car pulled into the driveway three doors down and a couple of teenagers in Santa hats climbed out. _Countless lives affected by his decisions and the only ones paying for them were people like Owen Shannon_.

Ainsley called him a victim while filming her interview. Part of Malcolm, the rational part, knew she was right. However, the other part of him believed he deserved what happened to him. Had he called the cops on his father sooner...

"We need to get this Watkins fella." Shannon's fingers curled atop the steering wheel, hard enough Malcolm heard the knuckles pop. "He's the only one who can tell us if there are more bodies than originally discovered."

"You believed there were more." Malcolm looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap to conceal the tremor that only stopped while they were working through that list in Ian Turner's storage locker. "More than are known about, anyway."

How many more was anybody's guess.

"Oh, there's more," Shannon growled softly. "I never believed the final number of victims was twenty-three. There were too many missing that could be attributed to the Surgeon."

"And knowing now that my father was working with Watkins..." His hand shook so hard he was sure Shannon heard the bones rattling against each other. "There's no knowing how many bodies there actually are."

Or which one killed them.

"I always believed the rest were buried where we couldn't find 'em."

"Like inside an auto wreckers."

"Right." Shannon voice was tight with anger. "The brass didn't want to hear it, though. They shut the case down with your dad's arrest and that was the end of it."

The case being closed sent the ex-detective down a dark and bitter path of depression and alcoholism. Shannon lost everything with Martin Whitly's arrest: his career, his reputation, and finally, his partner. For twenty-years, Owen Shannon lived with that hole in his gut, believing there were other victims out there, and not having anyone — so he thought — believe him.

_And now Ian Turner's dead because he almost figured out the Junkyard Killer was the Surgeon's accomplice and cleared Shannon's name_.

Another person paying for the crimes that John Watkins and Martin Whitly committed.

"If we can find a victim not linked to the original twenty-three..."

"Your father could be retried and sent upstate." Shannon slanted a look at him. "Where he belongs."

His voice throbbed with the satisfaction he'd get from seeing Martin Whitly put in a prison cell.

His face shone with an almost maniacal glee at the thought of finally, finally bringing the Surgeon down.

Of proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had been right all along about the Surgeon having an accomplice.

Malcolm could understand his feelings. The Surgeon had been his case. One he worked diligently for months. Then _he_ called the police to report his father was a murderer. Gil getting dispatched to their house to answer the call had been a stroke of luck — good or bad, Malcolm couldn't say.

It was the final blow. The ultimate humiliation for a veteran detective like Owen Shannon. Losing the biggest collar of his career to a beat cop answering what was suspected was nothing more than a prank call made by some spoiled rich kid.

However, Malcolm couldn't deny a small part of himself that didn't want to see his father transferred from Claremont Psychiatric. As toxic as his relationship with Martin Whitly was, he was still his father. He didn't want to lose what little contact with him he had.

He just couldn't explain why.

Much as a part of him loved Martin Whitly, another loathed him.

"_We're the same_," his father said, his smile that warm and loving one he always had. "_Never forget that, my boy. We're the same_."

"I know this must be hard for you," he heard Shannon say through the fog trying to wrap itself around him. "Being he's your father and all."

"He hurt a lot of people." Malcolm wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "They deserve justice. _Real_ justice."

"So do you, kid."

Those words sent shock waves through Malcolm.

"What?" He blinked rapidly. "But I thought..."

"That I believed you were his accomplice? Yeah, I did." Shannon's face twisted into a faint grimace. "I admit I may have been wrong. That I rushed to judgement because of something Martin Whitly said. I never took into account what he might have been doing to you. Didn't even occur to me that you might have been a victim."

"I'm not..."

"A victim?" Shannon's lips screwed up at one corner. "Keep telling yourself that, kid. One day, you may believe it."

Malcolm wanted to deny it. He did. He just... couldn't. What Shannon said wasn't something he hadn't heard before.

From Gabrielle.

From Gil.

From Ian Corbin.

From Ainsley.

From Sorcha.

"_You don't like hearing this_," Sorcha said as they stood outside the precinct earlier, "_but you're a victim, too_."

He wasn't a victim, though.

He wasn't.

Before Malcolm could tell Shannon that, before he could tell him he wasn't one of his father's victims, his phone buzzed. _Oh, I wonder who that could be_...

His money was on it being Ainsley chastising him for missing dinner. He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the message was from Sorcha, not Ainsley.

[_Running late_] the message read. [_Won't be starting home for another hour_].

Just as well she was running late, he decided as he typed a quick reply and sent it. He had no idea how long they'd be here.

Or what they might find waiting for them on the other side of the door.

"Girlfriend?"

"Uh, yeah." Malcolm's fingers brushed the velvet box he had yet to give to Sorcha as he slid his phone back into his pocket. "You could say that."

Strange how easy it was for him to admit that to Owen Shannon when he could barely admit it to himself.

"Going to be right pissed you didn't make it home for dinner?"

"No, she's going to be disappointed I didn't keep my promise to her."

"Yeah?" Shannon glanced over at him, one bushy brow raised. "And what promise was that?"

"Not to do anything stupid."

"Like chasing after a serial killer with a washed-up has been?"

"More like chasing after a serial killer who has already shot at me once and tried to crush me in a turnstile."

"Right." Shannon patted his jacket pocket. "Guess we'll just have to be smarter then."

A kernel of unease went through Malcolm as he glanced back at the place where Watkins lived. Something about this seemed... _off_.

He just couldn't explain what.

The house looked like all the rest lining the block. Nothing about it said a serial killer that liked to crush his victims in an auto-crusher lived there.

"Watkins isn't someone to underestimate," he said quietly. "He's a vengeance killer. Methodical. He kills with intention and pleasure."

Shannon opened his car door and stepped out. "I guess we better hope we get the drop on him before he gets the drop on us."

Malcolm's belly tightened as he exited the car and followed Shannon across the street. Something warned him they were about to enter purgatory.

He found himself in hell, instead.

With John Watkins as his personal tour guide.


	17. Chapter 17

Finding Owen Shannon in an ever growing pool of blood didn't help reduce the tension tightening every muscle and joint in Gil's body.

Neither did finding Bright was nowhere in sight.

Swanson voicing her usual anti-Bright diatribe also wasn't helping the throbbing pain that formed behind his right eye soon as the kid called to tell him they found an address for Watkins.

"Look," he said after one particularly cutting barb about Bright's inability to follow commands. "A former police officer has been killed. Can we focus on that?"

_Can we focus on getting my boy back safe_? Gil didn't say that. Not out loud, anyway. Collette Swanson wouldn't understand. She didn't _want_ to understand, he seethed silently. Collette Swanson decided long ago that Bright was like his father and that was all there was to it.

"Fine." Swanson crouched down to stare into Shannon's lifeless eyes. "Do we know how long ago it was that Bright and Owen Shannon arrived here to question Mathilda Watkins?"

"Bright called me a little over two hours ago to tell me they figured out Paul Lazar is really John Watkins," Gil replied with a glance at Dani. "They traced him to this address and were investigating the possibility of him still living here when we lost contact."

"You didn't tell Bright to wait for backup?"

"Right." JT moved to stand beside Gil. A bulldog protecting his pack. "Bright doesn't understand the meaning of those words."

"My point exactly, Detective Tarmel." Swanson rose back to her feet and faced them. "Bright didn't wait for backup. He didn't even ask for it. It makes me wonder why. What did he know? What did he see? What did he and Watkins talk about?"

"Bright didn't think there was a need for backup." Dani's voice was calm but Gil could see she was at the end of her rope with Swanson's blanket accusations about Bright and his involvement with Watkins. "He was just following a lead. He had no idea Watkins would be here."

"How can we be sure Bright didn't help lure Detective Shannon here for Watkins to kill?"

"Because that's not Bright," JT growled. "Guy's a lotta things but not a killer."

"He's the son of one."

"Yes, the son of one." Dani frowned her disapproval. "That doesn't make him one."

"Statistics show that the children of..."

"I don't care what the statistics say about the children of serial killer," Gil interjected in a hard voice. "Bright's not a killer."

_Nor will he ever become one_, he swore as his gaze clashed with the agents. Gil had done everything he could to make sure Bright wouldn't go down the path Martin Whitly so desperately wanted him too.

"Then where is Bright?" Swanson waved her hands through the air. "Why isn't he here to account for what happened? To explain why a former police detective is dead?"

"Maybe 'cause Watkins kidnapped his skinny ass." JT glanced almost apologetically at Gil and then Dani. "Only reason there is for why Bright's not here to tell us what happened."

Gil's had been doing his best to avoid admitting what JT just said to himself. Even as he raced here, he had known they wouldn't find Bright.

Still, he hoped.

Prayed.

_He got through Quantico_. That thought played over and over through Gil's mind. Bright survived FBI training. He worked for ten years as a special agent. Sure, his methods were unconventional. Yes, he was unorthodox. He got himself in a couple of scraps. _Punched a local sheriff_...

Nothing like this, though.

John Watkins wasn't an average run of the mill serial killer, though. He had a personal connection with Bright.

With Martin Whitly.

_And that_, Gil thought as a stretcher was wheeled in by someone he didn't recognize, _is what makes this situation more dangerous than it already is_.

They didn't know what Watkins wanted with Bright. There could be any number of reasons for why he chose to kidnap him.

None of them good.

"We need to interview Matilda Watkins." Gil ran a not so steady hand over his face. "See what she has to say. Maybe get an idea about what happened."

_And where Watkins took Bright_.

"That lady is nuttier than a fruitcake." JT moved so Shannon's body could be slid into a body bag. An ignoble end by Gil's way of thinking. "You heard all that crazy ass stuff she was spewing when we showed up."

_Crazy is an understatement_. Gil turned to look out the window. Mathilda Watkins sat quietly in the back of a squad car. She appeared benign, harmless. Completely opposite of the crazed woman who opened her front door and pelted them with vitriolic acid.

"She's our best bet for figuring out where Watkins may have taken Bright."

"Best of a bunch of bad options," JT muttered as he lumbered towards the exit. "You want me and Dani to interview her, Boss?"

"I'll interview her." Swanson headed for the front door. "This is still my case."

"And Bright's our guy."

Gil couldn't be more proud at that moment. Hearing, knowing that JT considered Bright one of the team.

"Maybe." Swanson sent a look over her shoulder. "I'll let you know if I get anything useful."

Protocol forbid him from telling the special agent exactly what he thought of her. _And it won't help Bright if I get into a heated exchange with her_, he reasoned as he turned to Dani and JT.

"Search the premises," he ordered as Owen Shannon's shrouded body was wheeled out. "It's possible we might turn up something that will give us an idea about where Watkins took Bright."

"Right."

"Sure thing, Boss."

They split up, JT heading upstairs, Dani sweeping the downstairs, and Gil going out to check around the back of the house. He kept his mind open, hoping he'd find Bright lying out there unconscious.

He was about to enter the garage when the sound of something buzzing snagged his attention. Gil went taut as a wire, eyes sweeping the perimeter to find the source of the sound. Every nerve tingled as he waited for... something, _anything_ to happen.

His brow furrowed when the buzzing came again.

_Cell phone_?

He aimed his flashlight into a corner of the garage and let out a low curse when it illuminated a coat tossed over a sawhorse.

"That's Bright's coat." Gil hadn't heard Dani exit the house. A rookie mistake, but one he accepted because it was his kid in danger. "And his shoes over there." The buzzing came again. "Think that's his cellphone?"

Gil walked over to feel in the pockets of the coat. His fingers encountered a long rectangular box in the inside pocket. _The charm bracelet he bought Sorcha_. _He never got the chance to give it to her_.

He had to hope the kid would get a chance to give it to her. Gil fished Bright's phone out as it buzzed again. A look at the caller ID didn't bring him any relief. In fact, it made the anxiety tightening his belly worse. Kid_, we're gonna have a long talk once you're home safe._

He swiped his finger across the screen to answer.

"Where are you?" He exchanged a look with Dani. Saw one dark brow lift. He shook his head before saying, his tone the one he used on Bright when he wanted the kid to know he was serious. "Go into my office and wait there for me." He disconnected the call as JT joined them. "Sorcha's at the precinct."

"First place she'd go to look for Bright."'Dani stowed her gun in its holster. "Especially if he wasn't answering his phone."

JT made a sound that was part grunt and part sigh before he said, "We're gonna need to get back to the precinct, Boss."

Gil looked at him, brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Cause Agent Swanson is there."

Who'd have no problem telling Sorcha what she believed happened here, Gil realized as Dani sighed. _Last thing I need is an altercation between the two of them_.

"Let's go," he told them. "And JT? If you get there before we do?"

"Lock her in your office?"

"Damn right."

…

"Finally have us some alone time, Malcolm." Watkins crouched down in front of him, a small smile appearing through the thick bristles covering the lower half of his face. "Can talk about a few things. Clear the air between us."

"Yeah?" Malcolm croaked as he blinked up at him through the bright light shining into his face. "Why don't we start by discussing the girl in the box then?"

"Always the girl in the box." There was a bite to Watkins tone. A dangerous one that told Malcolm clear as day that this was a sore subject with Watkins. "Yanno, you're like a broken record. Fixating on one subject more than appreciating things as a whole."

"What can I say? When I get fixated on something, I get fixated on it."

The words were light, airy, almost nonchalant. Opposite of the churning flood of emotions simmering below the surface. Anger, fear, guilt. All one simmering ball begging for release. Malcolm kept them locked away. They wouldn't get the answers he wanted from Watkins.

No, he needed to remain cool and calm. Keep his head clear. Approach Watkins with rational thoughts rather than emotionally driven ones.

"I think you've got more of your old man in you than you realize."

"Yeah?" Malcolm squinted through the light shining directly in his face. "I keep hearing that."

"Of course, your old man has more of a God complex than the hero one you seem to favor."

"Not surprising since he's a megalomaniac."

Watkins hummed what sounded like a laugh. "Not the only thing he is."

"Yeah?" He wet his dry lips with his tongue. "Want to share what else he is?"

"Oh, we'll get to your old man," Watkins assured him with another smile. "In good time."

Malcolm rattled the chains he was bound in. "Doesn't look like I'm going anywhere."

"Not until you complete your trials."

"Trials? What trials?"

Not that he didn't have a good bet on what those trials would be. He couldn't be sure how long he was unconscious. It could have been an hour, two or more. What he did know was Watkins chained him up in this cement bunker and took his coat, suit jacket, socks, and shoes for a reason.

"Patience, Malcolm." Watkins pushed himself to his feet. "We have plenty of time for all that."

He left Malcolm alone with his spiraling thoughts then.

And an ever increasing feeling in his gut he wouldn't make it out of this situation as the broken man he had been.


	18. Chapter 18

"We brought you on that camping trip to take care of you for good." The smile that crept over Watkins face sent a chill down Malcolm's spine. His head tilted to the side. Considering. What, he didn't know. How else to torture him seemed like a safe bet. Then Watkins face went devoid of all emotion. A perfect poker face. One Malcolm, with all his experience and skill, found impossible to crack. "Your father was going to kill you."

The words rocked Malcolm to the core of his being. His blood congealed in his veins. His breath froze in his lungs. The white noise growing steadily louder with every tick of the clock went silent. The only thing Malcolm heard was those words reverberating off the concrete walls surrounding them.

_Your father was going to kill you. _

To _kill_ you.

Kill _you_.

Of all the things he expected Watkins to reveal about the camping trip the three of them took, his father killing him hadn't been one of them.

"No," he croaked. "That's not true."

_It's impossible_, he added silently as he stared into Watkins emotionless face. There was just _no_ way. His father wouldn't...

_Are you sure he wouldn't kill you_? a slippery voice whispered. _You believed he'd never hurt you. How did that turn out_?

Pain blossomed in his chest that had nothing to do with the knife that Watkins stuck between his ribs. No, this bit of agony was from learning — realizing — his father planned to kill him.

The dark things living inside his head laughed and jeered. Taunted him with images of his father sitting with him in his lap and teaching him about the mechanics of the human hand. Acting out scenes from his favorite books. Following behind as he learned to ride a bike. Sneaking him cookies and hot chocolate before bed.

All things a loving father did with their son.

_He's wrong. _

Martin Whitly was many things — a sadistic megalomaniac, a predatory psychopath, and a malignant narcissist — but Malcolm believed he loved him.

Insomuch as a man like him could love another living being. His father wasn't capable of killing him.

He wasn't.

End of story.

_He chloroformed you_, that simpering voice intruded to remind him. _Why else are you missing such huge chunks of your memory_?

The man he hadn't believed capable of hurting him.

The man he believed loved him.

Chloroformed him.

Intentionally.

Malcolm's overeducated mind kicked in to remind him he shouldn't be so quick to believe Watkins. To trust anything the man had to say.

"_Everybody lies_," a cranky TV doctor from a show Sorcha introduced him to a few days ago liked to say.

He was right.

Everybody lied at some time or another.

Especially serial killers like John Watkins.

Like Martin Whitly.

"_We're the same." His father's lips spread wide in that all-too-familiar grin. "Never forget that, my boy. We're the same." _

Malcolm's breath wheezed out from between his teeth as he tried to tune his father out. It took every ounce of energy he had to shut that memory down.

To keep himself in the present.

To focus on Watkins.

To getting himself out of this situation.

The longer Watkins held him, though, the more his body would detox.

The more vulnerable his mind would become.

The less in control he'd be in.

Of himself and his actions.

"You're wrong." Malcolm sunk back on his feet and stared at Watkins through the strands of hair in his face. "My father wouldn't kill me."

He spoke with more confidence than he actually felt. Everything he thought — knew — about his father was in serious doubt now.

"Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm." Watkins let out a low chuckle that grated on Malcolm's steadily fraying nerves. "Your father was definitely gonna kill you. Why else did he bring you with us?"

"Why?" The word came out softer, breathier than he'd have liked. He attributed it to blood loss and growing fatigue. "Why did he want to kill me?"

"The chloroform wasn't working as it once did." Watkins moved his hands. A move meant to distract him. To shift his focus. To signify how unimportant he found the topic. "You were starting to remember things."

"What things?" That's what he wanted to know. "What was I starting to remember?"

Watkins shook his head, sighed.

"You keep asking the wrong questions here, Malcolm." Watkins placed his arm across his bent knee. "Focusing on things that aren't important."

"If I'm asking the wrong questions," Malcolm said. "Tell me what the right questions are."

"Why should I tell you what they are?" Watkins again smiled but there was no humor in it. "How are you to learn if I give you the questions and the answers?"

"What am I supposed to learn?"

"You'll see." Watkins pushed to his feet. "I have plans for you, little Malcolm."

"Yeah?" Malcolm tilted his head back so he could look at Watkins. "Sorry, I'm not exactly a team player. Ask my father."

"Trust me." Watkins eyes became sharper. His smile predatory. Like a wolf who cornered his prey and was slowly closing in for the kill. Malcolm's blood began to pump, quickly, helplessly. "By the time I'm done, you will be everything your father hoped you'd be and then some."

He left him alone then.

...

Gil found Sorcha staring out the window when he entered his office. She still wore the dress from earlier. Her arms were wrapped about herself to fight off a chill that had nothing to do with the frigid temperatures outside.

She turned to face him. Her face might have been coolly composed but her eyes burned with an intensity that left no doubt in Gil's mind about what was going on inside. Sorcha reminded him of Jessica at that moment. Neither woman would fall to pieces until Bright was back safe.

"When?"

There wasn't any need for her to ask him _if_ Bright had been kidnapped. No, Sorcha figured that out soon as he answered the kid's phone.

"We believe it happened a little after seven."

Only silently did he add, _Right after he replied to your text and told you to be careful driving back into the city_.

Not that Bright was careful. No, the kid never stopped to consider his own safety while working a case. His own health and well-being wasn't something that ever crossed Bright's mind.

His guilt over all the people Martin Whitly hurt prevented him from valuing himself. To seeing he mattered. That he mattered. No matter how much Gil tried, he just couldn't get Bright to accept that he didn't owe the world for what his father did. Bright saw himself as responsible and there was no changing his mind about it.

"Is it Lazar who has him?"

_She doesn't know that Bright figured out who Paul Lazar really is_.

That thought played through Gil's mind as he shut the door behind him before crossing towards her. Bright hadn't gotten the chance to tell her what he and Owen Shannon learned in Deputy Chief's Turner's storage locker.

_There hadn't been any time for him to tell her_.

No, the kid sent one quick message to her before following Shannon into the proverbial lion's den and getting himself caught by the lion after Watkins killed Shannon.

_Dammit, Bright, why didn't you wait for backup to arrive_?

Why he even thought that, Gil didn't know. The kid asking, much less waiting for backup would be sign the world was coming to an end.

He only had himself to blame, though.

He shouldn't have allowed Bright to leave the precinct.

Not when he knew Owen Shannon was lurking around, still carrying a grudge against the kid after all these years. The probability for a confrontation between the two had been high. Gil had known it was. Yet he allowed Bright to waltz out of the precinct without once thinking to ask Dani or JT to go with him.

_I should have made sure he got to Jessica's as he intended. _

He hadn't counted on them actually working together to solve the riddle of who Paul Lazar was.

Tying him to the Junkyard Killer.

To the Surgeon.

Nor had he imagined them tracking the man to his grandmother's house.

Now, Owen Shannon was dead, and Bright in the hands of a man who already hurt him once as a warning.

His only hope for figuring out where Watkins might have taken Bright was the woman in front of him.

Gil needed a profiler.

One who understood Bright.

Who knew everything he did about Watkins.

Who'd focus on finding Bright and bringing him home alive.

"Bright found out Paul Lazar is really John Watkins."

Sorcha's only outward reaction to that revelation was a widening of her eyes.

"So, we know who the Junkyard Killer really is."

"And that he murdered Deputy Chief Ian Turner."

"_Watkins_ killed Turner?" Sorcha couldn't quite mask her surprise. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Her brow furrowed. "Turner doesn't fit his victimology."

"Bright and a former detective named Owen Shannon found out Turner was secretly investigating the Junkyard Killer."

"Because he suspected him of being involved with the Surgeon."

Gil wasn't surprised at how quickly she made the connection. He had suspected she would. Sorcha had had been raised by one of the finest men Gil had ever met. Ian Corbin taught everything he knew about profiling to his daughter.

To Bright.

It not only made her _his_ best resource at that moment but also Bright's. Sorcha was his closest confidante. One of the few people he trusted with his deepest, darkest secrets. Who believed him about the girl in the box.

Bright would have told her things he wouldn't have felt comfortable sharing with him or the rest of the team. Bounced ideas off of her. Shared theories.

_Created a more complete profile_.

"That's what Bright believed, yes."

Sorcha turned to stare pensively out the window. "The woman I saw Swanson bring in here... is she connected to this Watkins?"

"His grandmother."

Sorcha made a soft sound deep in her throat.

"She won't tell you anything."

"Why do you think that?"

Not that he didn't doubt her. Gil also suspected they wouldn't learn anything from Mathilda Watkins.

"It goes back to what my father believed about how killers aren't all born."

"Someone has to break them."

How often had Bright said that to him?

"Watkins is a mission-oriented killer," Sorcha said. "He sees himself cleaning up the world by ridding it of the addicts, prostitutes, and derelicts. An avenging angel or instrument of God." She waved her hand towards the door. "Something most likely learned at the hands of a grandmother who was a religious fanatic."

"Watkins killed Owen Shannon."

"She probably called him once she figured out why they were there."

"She set Bright up then."

"Yes." Sorcha turned her eyes to his in the glass. "Watkins told Malcolm before that he wasn't his mission. That changed tonight. He wouldn't have taken Mal if he didn't plan on his being his new mission."

Withdrawal was only the beginning of what Watkins would do to Bright. Starvation, dehydration, physical and psychological torture. All designed with one purpose: _to break the kid_.

"We have to find Bright."

"We have a maximum of twelve hours in which to find Mal." Some of Sorcha's anxiety leaked through into her voice. "Any longer and who knows what condition we'll find him in."

Gil set a hand on her shoulder. "We'll find him."

She reached up to cover his hand with her own. "Then let's get started."


	19. Chapter 19

"You've never expressly denied whether or not I'm not your next mission."

Watkins eyes narrowed but he offered no response. Not that Malcolm expected one. The man had been silent since returning from wherever it was he went between their visits. Why wasn't clear. Malcolm figured it was him finalizing whatever he had planned for him.

A steadily growing concern of Malcolm's was that he wasn't Watkins only victim. The more he thought about what happened at the Watkins home, the more he realized there was a reason for why Matilda Watkins had to call him home.

A call that resulted in Owen Shannon getting his throat slit.

Another change in Watkins modus operandi.

Same as using a gun to kill Ian Turner and that escort.

"Pretty sure you're going to starve me. Deprive me of water. Sleep. Same as you did with all your other victims. Too bad I tend to avoid those things."

Nothing.

Not even an eye blink.

Malcolm pushed himself into a seated position, mindful of the wound weeping fresh blood with every move he made.

"Also guessing you will eventually want me to atone for my sins." He forced his lips into a smile despite the creeping fatigue and bright bite of pain from every breath he took. "Afraid we're gonna be here a while if that's the case. Gotta lot to confess."

The last elicited a response from Watkins.

"Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm." He crouched so he could stare him in the eyes. "I told you, I'm finished with saving people."

That sent pinpricks of alarm dancing along Malcolm's already frayed nerves. It could only mean one thing: Watkins definitely had something in store for him. Trials, he called them. What those trials might be, he didn't know. Malcolm hid his concern behind a combination of smug certainty and glacier calm.

"So, I was right." He breathed through the burst of pain that shot across his chest as he moved into a more comfortable position. "You're evolving."

Which didn't bode well for him or whoever else Watkins might have down there with them.

He needed to figure out a way to get out of the cuffs Watkins locked him into.

To get to a phone.

To call Gil.

Dani.

JT.

To get help for whatever poor, unfortunate soul Watkins could, at that moment, be torturing nearby.

He needed to get Watkins to talk. That was his first and foremost priority. To get Watkins talking.

Get him to reveal where they were.

_And who else he has down here with us. _

That way, if an opportunity presented itself, he could pass the information along.

"Haven't you not figured it out, little Malcolm?" A small smile creased Watkins lips. "I'm a chameleon." Malcolm figured that out weeks ago. How else could Watkins have managed to remain undetected for the last twenty years? "I'm always evolving. Never doing things the same way." He eased back to sit against the wall across from him. "That's how your old man ended up getting caught. See, I knew I needed to do things differently. Make sure I couldn't be connected with the Surgeon."

"Until Deputy Chief Turner figured out the Junkyard Killer and my father's accomplice were one and the same."

"Couldn't let that little detail get revealed." Something passed across Watkins face. A shadow of something Malcolm couldn't readily identify. Hate, anger? Either sparked his curiosity. "I'm not your father. I didn't go to the well one too many times." Watkins drew one leg up and placed an arm across it. "See, I warned him you were a liability. You were asking too many questions. He didn't listen. Said he had everything under control."

"Since he planned to…"

Malcolm couldn't bring himself to finish that statement. It still seemed too impossible to him.

Too illogical.

Too improbable.

His father _couldn't_ have been planning to kill him.

"Oh, he planned to kill you, Malcolm," Watkins said, as if he could sense Malcolm's thought. "I guarantee you that."

"Why didn't he then?"

He wanted to know that almost more than he wanted to know who the girl in the box was. Not that he'd get that answer out of Watkins, either. No, Watkins just barked a soft laugh.

"That's something you'd have to get your old man to explain."

"Gonna be a bit hard for me to ask him about it if I'm dead."

"Oh, I don't plan on killing you, Malcolm."

"No?"

"Oh, no." Watkins pushed to his feet. "I've got something else in mind for you."

"What?"

Not that Malcolm didn't already have a good idea about what Watkins had in store for him.

Watkins made a soft _tsk-tsk_ sound. "Not telling you. Not yet." He turned to leave. "We can continue this conversation when I get back."

"Sure," Malcolm said. "Since we haven't talked about the girl in the box."

Watkins left without offering a reply.

Not that Malcolm expected one.

...

Gil questioned the wiseness of his decision to have Sorcha help them less than an hour later. She was a benefit to him and the investigation. Long as he kept her and Agent Swanson from seeing each other.

He accomplished it mostly because Swanson was busy trying to get what information she could put of Matilda Watkins.

Which, as Sorcha tried to convey to him in his office earlier, had amounted to nothing. The woman spewed nothing but hatred for them and praise for what her "Johnny" had done.

Frustrated, dismayed, Gil exited the interrogation room. He stopped when he saw Sorcha standing next to Dani by the two-way glass. _Dammit, if Swanson sees her_… He didn't get a chance to send the two back to his office, though.

"What is she doing here?" Swanson demanded, eyes narrowing into thin slits. "She has no business being here."

"Malcolm is my friend." Sorcha shot back. "That gives me every reason to be here."

"Friend? Is that what they're calling accomplices here?"

"Accomplice, now, am I?" Sorcha snorted a laugh. "That's rich."

"You spoke with Bright before his disappearance."

"No, I received a text message from him." Sorcha tossed her head and folded her arms across her chest. "Something you'd know if you bothered to ask me about it rather than make your usual assumptions."

"You should have notified—"

"She didn't need to notify anyone," Gil interjected, voice firm. "I found Bright's phone in his coat at the scene. I'm the one who told Sorcha to come here and wait for me."

Swanson half-turned towards him, her look one of warning. As if he'd be easily cowed. "Lieutenant—"

"I did not want Sorcha finding out what happened to Bright on the news."

"Irregardless." She indicated they interrogation room with a wave of her hand. "She had no business watching my interrogation."

Gil wanted to fire back that it wasn't her interrogation but thought better of it. Things were already tense enough without him adding to it.

"Sorcha warned me that we'd get nothing from Matilda Watkins," he said instead. "And she was right."

"We haven't gotten anything to exonerate Bright, you mean."

"You really hate him that much, don't you?" Sorcha shook her head. "Even his being kidnapped by a dangerous predator isn't enough to convince you that Malcolm is not what you think he is."

"You also know what he is, Miss Corbin. You just refuse to admit it because of your personal relationship with him."

"I have been admitting what Malcolm is since we encountered each other outside the FBI building. You just refuse to listen because your inferiority complex prevents you from hearing what is being said."

"I do not have an inferiority complex."

"You could have fooled me." Sorcha turned towards Dani. Dismissing Swanson. Something the agent didn't take kindly if the fury on her face was any indication. "Malcom's coat was found with his shoes and socks at the scene?"

"Miss Corbin," Swanson interrupted before Dani could confirm they had been. "You are not part of this case. You are not..."

"Qualified to help?" Sorcha turned back to her. "Oh, I assure you I'm more than qualified to help. As _you_ pointed out... I have a personal relationship with Malcom. I've known him for years. I know how he thinks. Beyond that? I know everything he thought and believed about this man, John Watkins. Kinda relevant if you ask me."

"That doesn't make you qualified to work this case."

"No? Call Lieutenant Mick Brannigan at the 29. He'll happily tell you my qualifications. Or better yet, call Doug Kindle and ask him if I'm qualified to work as a consultant." A smirk screwed up one corner of her mouth. "He _is_ your boss, isn't he?"

"He's the Unit Chief, yes." Swanson's tone could have cut glass. "Not that..."

"Better yet, call Adam Corolla." Sorcha's smile was thin as a blade. "The newly appointed Assistant Director as of this morning."

Swanson's eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

"Adam was my father's best friend.” A hard glint flashed through Sorcha’s eyes. “You remember Ian Corbin, don’t you? He was Unit Chief before his death."

"Damn," JT breathed out behind Gil. "Girl got connections."

Those weren't the only connections Sorcha had. Former Deputy Chief Hoyt Brannigan was also her uncle. _And she has another uncle and cousin who work for the NYPD_. Gil kept that information to himself. Way he saw it, Sorcha was doing just fine on her own.

"Uncle Adam also knows Malcolm. He helped mentor him. Was against the Bureau firing him, in fact. He and Doug both thought it was a bunch of bullshit." Sorcha's lips curled at the corners. "They're currently working on an appeal."

"Bright had a history of..."

"Solving cases? Saving lives? Helping victims? Ending situations without resorting to violence? Gee..." Honeyed acid dripped from Sorcha's tongue. "You'd think that was a _good_ thing but I forgot we're dealing with a bunch of bureaucrats who care more for headlines than lives."

"Bright deserves what happened to him."

"Oh, believe me, I think being let go from the FBI was the best thing for Malcolm." Gil aimed a surprised look at her. He hadn't thought he'd ever hear Sorcha say she thought the kid's being let go was the best thing for him. Especially given all the things they happened to him since becoming a consultant. "He can do more good here as a consultant for the NYPD than he can for the FBI. He also has a team he can trust here. Friends he can rely on. To have his back when he's kidnapped by a serial predator."

Swanson's lip curled. "You're counting on him still being a consultant after this."

"I wouldn't worry so much about if _he_ will still be a consultant after this, Agent Swanson as much as I'd worry about if _you'll_ still have a job after this."

"Why would I be in danger of losing my job?"

"Because if you hinder us in any way from finding Malcolm?" Sorcha spun on one spiky heel. "I will make sure _you_never work for any law enforcement agency again."


	20. Chapter 20

The way Sorcha spun on one spiky heel and started to make her way from the observation area reminded Gil so much of Jessica. _The two have been spending more time together of late_, he mused as his lips twitched. _To clearly scathing effects_.

He contained his amusement, however. He couldn't show he approved of what Sorcha said. JT on the other hand, didn't feel such a need. No, he grunted a sound that mixed amusement with approval. That the gruff detective had taken a liking to Sorcha wasn't lost on Gil. He imagined the reason for that was because of how forthright and honest she was.

Sorcha Corbin wasn't one to mince words.

_Got that from her father_.

Without a doubt, she'd carry out her threat to ruin Swanson if she hindered them in any way whatsoever. Swanson was also concerned enough about Sorcha's threat that she didn't offer one of her caustic replies.

Part of him wondered what was said during the first conversation the two had. Something told him this one was way more polite than that one had been. The hostility between the two had been evident in the Whitly foyer.

_And all of it over Bright_.

Most people thought like Colette Swanson did. That because Bright was the son of a serial killer that he either must be one or would eventually become one.

He didn't lie when he told people the kid was an acquired taste. He took getting used too. He did things different. He could be a handful. _Especially when he's having a manic episode_.

The kid idled between moderate and intense. He swung high or low without a moment's notice. Bounced off walls because he had a surplus of energy he couldn't rid himself of.

Not many people wanted to deal with all that craziness. Those who tried burned out, tapped out, ran away as fast as they could. Gil could count how many friends and supporters Bright had on two hands.

_And four of them are in this room_.

"I will remind you that you are only here at Lieutenant Arroyo's request," Swanson said, tone cool. "At any time that your services are no longer needed, I can and will ask you to leave."

"I'll leave when Malcolm is home safe."

Gil decided it was time he stepped in and put an end to this squabbling. He needed Sorcha and Swanson focused on Bright. On Watkins. The clock was ticking, as Sorcha pointed out in his office. Every second was one more Watkins could use to torture the kid.

_His kid_.

"Fighting among ourselves isn't going to help us find where Watkins took Bright," he told them in a soft, but firm voice. "Finding Bright is our primary objective."

"Catching Watkins is our primary objective," Colette corrected. "Bright is merely an accessory to that."

"Meaning you're going to treat Malcolm as an accessory."

Swanson's gaze cut to Sorcha. "Until I find evidence to suggest otherwise, yes."

"You have evidence to suggest otherwise," Sorcha shot back. "You just refuse to accept it because of your pettiness."

_Bright_, Gil decided as he sent an imploring look up at the ceiling, _is a lot easier to deal with than these two will be. _

"And you refuse…" Swanson began but Gil cut her off.

"Enough!" He aimed a look at the frowning agent before swinging his head to include Sorcha in it. "You want to help Bright?"

"You know I do."

"Then you need to stop _arguing_ with each other and start _working_ with each other."

"You know I'd work with Martin Whitly at this point."

Gil sent her a mildly amused smile. "It might come to that."

"All I need is two minutes alone with the man."

Swanson scoffed.

"You think getting answers from a man like Martin Whitly will be that easy?"

"I assure you, Agent Swanson." A feral gleam passed through Sorcha's eyes. Put Gil's instincts on edge. "I have no intention of saying one word to that man."

No, she planned on letting a fist do her talking for her. Gil almost, _almost_ was tempted to let her in Dr. Whitly's cell just for the satisfaction of seeing his reaction.

"Was beating up incapacitated suspects to get answers something your father taught you, Miss Corbin?" A malicious smile twisted Swanson's lips. "Or did you learn that from Bright?"

"That's crossing a line, Agent Swanson," Gil said, voice like tempered steel. "You can either leave my precinct now or you can apologize to Sorcha."

Swanson's dark eyes lifted to his. Gil expected her to refuse his request and was not disappointed when she said, "I have nothing to apologize for, Lieutenant Arroyo."

That was a matter of opinion. Gil opted not to press it. _For now_.

"You want to catch Watkins?" He nodded towards Sorcha. "You need Sorcha."

"I do not…"

"Sorcha understands Bright." An edge to JT's voice indicated how little he liked the agent. "She knows how he thinks. Insomuch as anyone can know how his skinny ass thinks."

"Thinking like Bright isn't going to help us, Detective Tarmel."

"Right." Sorcha snorted. "He's only the one who came up with the profile here."

"How do we know we can trust his profile?" Swanson waved off one of the other agents when he tried to hand her a file. "He could easily have created a fake profile."

"Bright wouldn't do that." Dani spoke this time. "He has no reason to do it."

"He would if he's working with John Watkins."

"The second to last person that Malcolm would work with is John Watkins."

"And would his father be the last person he'd work with, Detective Powell?" Swanson folded her arms in front of her. "Because it seems like he's worked with Dr. Whitly plenty since joining the NYPD."

"That's enough." He looked at JT. "Take Sorcha back to my office. Start going over everything we know at this point."

"Sure thing, Boss."

JT lumbered from the room, Sorcha and Dani a few steps behind him.

Gil waited until they were gone before he turned to Swanson.

"You insult Ian Corbin's name and memory again and I will kick you out of my precinct." Swanson opened her mouth to retort but Gil held up a hand to stop. "Is that understand?"

Resentment wafted off Swanson in thick waves. Not that Gil cared. Sorcha and Bright could defend themselves.

Ian Corbin couldn't.

"Yes, Lieutenant Arroyo."

"Good."

He left the agent then to fuss and fume in silence. He didn't care so long as she got her head together and helped them with finding Bright.

_Before it's too late_.

…

Fatigue and blood loss finally caught up with Malcolm. He drifted in and out of consciousness. Rode on the waves of white noise filling his head. Listened to the taunts and jeers, the slippery insinuations and accusations, and the words that had damned him since he was ten.

"Those are the words of a manipulator, Malcolm."

Malcolm blinked open blurry eyes. Turned his throbbing head. Barely made out the figure seated in a chair across from him. His heart throbbed as he took in those craggy features. The more salt than pepper hair, the thin goatee. Lips curved into a smile so achingly familiar that it brought tears to eyes.

"You're not here," he managed around his swollen tongue. "You're another hallucination. Like Gabrielle."

"It's your minds way of telling you what you know deep down." Ian Corbin leaned forward into what little light illuminated the dark chamber Watkins left him chained in. His eyes, the same rich shade as Sorcha's sparkled with conviction and confidence. "You need to listen and do what you need to not only get yourself out of this situation but protect those that mean the most to you."

"How?" The words throbbed with every ounce of the pain and frustration inside him. "How do I protect them?"

He didn't care about protecting himself.

"That's the problem. You don't care about you."

The ghost of a smile flickered across Malcolm's battered face. "You sound like Sorcha."

"My girl believes in you. She loves you." Ian pointed upwards. "She's out there fighting for you."

"I don't deserve her," he whispered. "I'm broken. I can't be fixed."

"You're not broken." Ian sat back in his chair and regarded him with eyes that seemed to penetrate the walls he had built around himself. Seeing all the ugly things inside him but not damning him for them. "You're much stronger than you credit yourself for being."

"My father—"

"Manipulated you from the time you were a small child," Ian cut in, the words familiar ones. "He used you just like he used his surgical tools. Abused you in ways you refuse to acknowledge. All to mold you into his perfect partner."

Malcolm wanted to deny what he said, like he always did, but he couldn't. His father had been grooming him. He knew that. Same as he knew his father continued to hope that he'd finally snap. That he'd finally become a killer.

_Like him. _

Again those words, those damning words slid between the static. His father in his red sweater, smiling his warm and loving smile, telling him they were the same as detectives led him away.

"You're not the same, Malcolm. You've proven time and again how different from Martin Whitly you are." Ian aimed a finger at him. "That's why Watkins kidnapped you. Why he brought you here."

"Watkins wants to break me."

"He wants revenge."

Malcolm's forehead creased at those words. "Revenge?" His hand drifted to the wound still seeping blood. "He got it. He stabbed me like I stabbed him."

"If all Watkins wanted was to get even with you for stabbing him, he could have done it plenty of times now. This isn't about you stabbing him. It's not even about breaking you, Malcolm. It's—"

"About my father," Malcolm whispered as realization dawned, bright as the midday sun. "He wants revenge because my father didn't fulfill his promises to him on that camping trip."

"The question is, son, are you going to let him use you? Or are you going to fight back?"

"How?" He jingled the chains holding him to the floor. "How do I fight when I'm chained up like an animal?"

"Fight smarter, not harder," Ian said as a soft humming filled the room with a calming sound. "Isn't that what my girl always says?"

"She could have taught me how to escape these cuffs."

"You know how to get out of those cuffs."

Malcolm went to reply but the humming grew louder, turned into words from a song. One taught to a daughter by her loving father and shared by that daughter with him. Ian's velvety baritone mingled with that lilting one that belonged to Sorcha.

_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes_...

…

"Let's grab some coffee on way back to Gil's office," JT said once they were out of the observation room. "Gonna be a long night."

"Spike mine with a shot of bourbon, please."

"Wouldn't have taken you for a whiskey girl."

"Only when I'm extremely stressed." Sorcha waved a hand behind her. "Or have to deal with that woman."

JT grunted a silent agreement about. "Figure you need a drink or two after dealing with Bright."

She hummed a laugh as she followed him into the break room. "He requires something a bit more physical than a few shots of whiskey, actually."

"Couple of rounds with a punching bag comes to mind." He aimed a look down at her. "Or kickboxing."

"I swim a hundred laps in his pool, actually."

"Bright has a pool in his place?" Dani's eyebrows drew together. "I thought it was just a loft?"

"No, it has multiple floors to it."

"He didn't give me a tour the night I took him home."

"Come by when he's not stoned," Sorcha joked. "We'll show you around."

Dani was about to say something but Swanson stalked by, glowering at them.

"She really hates, Bright, doesn't she?" Dani leaned back against the wall while JT grabbed mugs and filled them with coffee. "Why?"

"I don't know the entire story." Sorcha perched on the edge of the counter. "Malcolm isn't always clear when it comes to these sorts of things."

"We know."

Sorcha lips twitched. "Figured out he's Gregory House but with less caustic wit and a deeper ingrained set of morals?"

"House would club him with that cane to get him to sit still," JT said as he passed Sorcha her mug.

"Mal has a high threshold for pain."

"We know."

She reached for a couple of creamers in a box set beside the coffee pot but stopped. "You've given Mal something that he hasn't had in a long time."

"Friendship?" Dani guessed.

"That," Sorcha said with a nod, "and being valued on his own merits."

"Things didn't start out that way," JT admitted without shame or remorse. "Didn't know what to make of his crazy ass in the beginning."

"You gave him a chance." Sorcha's eyes met his. Open. Vulnerable. Brimming with worry and concern. Her face, however, remained coolly composed. Like Tally, she was focused on solving the crisis. Then she'd fall to pieces. "That's what important."

JT didn't know what to say to that so he pointed to the tattoo on the back of her neck, instead.

"Army?"

"My brother," she explained as he passed Dani a mug. "He did two tours of Afghanistan before coming home with both his legs blown off by an IED." JT flinched. He knew many who came back missing limbs because of IEDs. "You'd like Sean, actually."

"Cause we were army?"

"More because you both think Malcolm is a walking disaster."

JT grunted. "Bright was a state, he'd be Florida."

"During a hurricane."


	21. Chapter 21

"How we gonna work this?" JT asked once they gathered in Gil's office. "Swanson has everything we've collected on Watkins." He grunted as he eyed the agent through the glass. "Don't think she gonna give anything up willingly."

"Least of all since I'm here." Sorcha carefully lifted Bright's suit coat from Gil's desk and investigated it. Looking for signs of any potential injuries that Bright's danger prone ass might have gotten before Watkins waltzed off with him. "She won't let me anywhere near any of the information you've gathered."

"Yeah, she don't like you much," JT agreed as he took a hit from his half-empty mug. "Or Bright."

"Inferiority complex along with internalized misogyny and sexism."

"You and Bright are dangerous at parties, aren't you?"

"He can't turn that profiler side of himself off." She reached into the pocket of the jacket and removed a small blue stress ball she set on Gil's desk. "He's hyper vigilant. It's part of..."

"His PTSD," JT said. "Yeah, got that."

Bright was the poster child for post traumatic stress in his mind. A walking trauma in Armani suits and polished Oxford's.

"Bright gave us the profile on Watkins." Gil sat back in his chair, appearing at ease but it was all an act. JT suspected the man was a volcano of emotions on the inside. Bright was his kid, after all and he was in trouble. Serious trouble. "We work from that."

"Profile isn't going to tell us where he took Bright, though." JT hated being _that_ guy but it seemed obvious to him they needed more than a profile if they wanted to find Bright. "Don't think he's gonna take him to the junkyard."

"The junkyard is still being swept for bodies." Dani took a seat on the couch. "They brought in more bones this evening."

"Who knows how many bodies they might find." JT had lost count of how many there were at this point. The Junkyard Killer was closing in on the Surgeon's number. Rate it was going, he'd surpass that number. Easily. "This guy's been killing for twenty years."

"Don't forget he was also killing before he started working with the Surgeon." Gil rubbed at his face. Something he did when he was agitated or stressed. JT figured he was a combination of both. Watkins was killing during his years working a beat and nobody realized it. "Who knows what his actual body count might be."

"Could be talking Bundy numbers here."

"I don't think Watkins has killed as many as Bundy." Sorcha shifted in her seat. _Nervous energy_, JT mused. Like Bright but more subdued. _Since his skinny ass don't do anything in moderation_. "He's definitely killed more than the Surgeon."

"Given the Surgeon has been locked up for twenty years."

"Don't believe that because Martin Whitly is snug in his cushy cell at Claremont that he hasn't added to his body count."

"How, though?" One of Dani's brows quirked. "He's locked up. And under supervision."

"He has phone privileges," Sorcha pointed out. "He can email and send written letters. Has visitation rights."

"Why, though?"

"Malcolm." Sorcha's face went hard as stone. "His _boy_." The last came out a hiss. JT thought she saved the majority of her hate for Swanson. Bright's dad clearly held that spot. Not that he blamed her. Guy was a serial killer who messed up his son. _Badly_. "It's always about Malcolm."

"Martin Whitly will do anything to get Malcolm to visit him," Gil agreed with a nod.

"Include stage murders?"

"Yes," he and Sorcha said in unison.

"Could he have convinced Watkins to kidnap Bright?"

"I thought that after finding out he kidnapped him," Sorcha admitted with a small sigh. "Now, though?" She shook her head. "I think Watkins was waiting to kidnap Malcolm and the dumbass gave him the opportunity when he showed up at his grandmother's house."

"Guy tends to do that," JT muttered. "Sees danger and runs towards it."

"Believe me, I know." A faint smile curved her lips. "Been with the danger prone idiot a long time."

"And you ain't gone crazy yet?"

Sorcha hummed a laugh. "Oh, I'm batshit crazy," she joked. "It's just not because of Malcolm."

"If Watkins kidnapped Bright because of opportunity," Gil said before JT could reply, "where is he going to take him?"

"Somewhere that holds special meaning for him but especially for Malcolm."

"Wherever they went on that camping trip seems like a pretty significant place to them both."

"Yes, it is." Sorcha laid the jacket in her lap and reached for the scarf set atop them fancy ass dress shoes Bright wore. "Which makes it too obvious for a location he'd take Malcolm."

"You don't think he took him to wherever they went camping?"

JT watched as she ran a hand over the scarf. Her mouth trembled but her face remained otherwise cool and composed. _Like Tally would be_, he realized. _Shit might be hitting the fan but she'd wait until the crisis was over to fall apart_.

"It's possible he'd take Bright to wherever they camped." She folded the scarf and set it back atop the shoes. "But I don't think it's where he took him."

"Why not?" Dani frowned, her expression thoughtful. "It makes the most sense."

"Watkins has thought about this for a long time." Sorcha then laid the jacket over the scarf and shoes. "He's planned every detail. He's not going to leave anything to chance."

"Bright said Watkins is a mission-oriented killer." Dani leaned forward and picked up a notepad that she handed to Sorcha. "Wouldn't that mean he'd take him somewhere he could keep Bright isolated? Force him to repent his sins?"

"This isn't a mission for Watkins."

One of Dani's eyebrows lifted. "It's not?" She frowned. "Why?"

"If Malcolm was a mission, Watkins could have easily taken him from in that service tunnel. He taunted him with information about that camping trip and the girl in the box instead. Let him go. No, this a mission for Watkins."

"If he didn't take Bright as part of his mission then why kidnap him?" JT set his empty mug on a filing cabinet. "Why not just kill him?"

"Because this is revenge."

"Revenge?" Gil shot forward in his chair, hands palm down on his desk. "On who? Bright?"

"Martin Whitly."

"Malcolm's dad?" Dani shook her head. "Why would he want revenge on his dad?"

"Now that is one thing I can't tell you because Malcolm doesn't remember enough about what happened on that camping trip to supply us with a clue."

"Just that Watkins was there."

"Insomuch as we can trust Malcolm's recollections of events, yes."

"You doubt his memories?"

"I _believe_ he remembers these events," Sorcha said. "I just don't know if he is remembering them in the correct sequence."

"What do you mean by _correct sequence_?"

"Trauma affects memory," Sorcha explained as she sat back. "Compounding that is Martin Whitly using chloroform on Malcolm on a routine basis. How much of what he recalls is in order and how much of it his brain has simply pieced together is a mystery at this point." Sorcha stared down at the hands she folded in her lap. "What I do believe is something happened on that camping trip. Something that caused a rift between Martin Whitly and John Watkins."

"Like what, though?" JT leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. "And why wouldn't Bright remember something like that? Seems kinda important to me."

"I can only guess that the trauma of finding the girl in the box and Martin chloroforming Malcolm blocked out whatever happened."

"Why didn't Martin blame all of these murders on Watkins?" It was the one question Gil had asked himself since the connection between Watkins and Martin Whitly was revealed. "Why chose to be locked away for the rest of his life in Claremont?"

"I've asked myself that same question." Sorcha picked up her mug of coffee. "Wondered why a man like Martin Whitly didn't shift the blame to someone else. I could only come up with one conclusion." Her expression went grim. "He thought Watkins dead."

"You think he killed Watkins?"

"I think he definitely tried."

JT let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. "Guess even serial killers can be wrong."

"What does this mean for Bright?" Dani questioned. "Is Watkins going to kill him to get back at his dad?"

"Killing Malcolm would be too simple."

"Too simple?" Dani's brow creased. "How can killing him be too simple?"

"Because it'd be like tearing off a bandaid. One yank and it's over." Sorcha pushed to her feet and walked to the window. "No, he wants to twist the proverbial knife. And the only way to do that," she said with a sigh heavy with all the fear churning inside her, "is by taking away the one thing Martin Whitly wants most."

"Bright becoming his partner."

"Serial killers aren't born broken." Sorcha's eyes met theirs in the glass. "Someone has to break us."

"He won't break him." Gil's fury and fear blistered the air. "Bright's strong. He'll resist him."

"Malcolm already sees himself as broken." She folded her arms about herself before turning to face them. "Watkins will play on that. And without his medication..."

"Bright won't give in." Gil's hands curled around the arms of his chair. JT imagined he pictured them around Watkins throat. Or Martin Whitly's. "We'll find him before Watkins breaks him."

"Where do we start looking?" A fire burned in JT's belly. Bright's quirks annoyed the hell out of him most often. Most days he wasn't even sure he liked the guy. That didn't mean he didn't think of the danger prone dumbass as part of the team. "You say where and we'll get on it."

"We start with the photo albums we brought back from the Watkins home." Gil pushed to his feet. "Something in there will hopefully give us a clue about where he might have taken Bright."

"We need to tell Jessica." Sorcha blew out a heavy breath. "She doesn't know he's missing."

"I'll tell her." Gil wasn't looking forward to the conversation. Not that JT blamed him. The woman wasn't exactly easy to deal with. "You stay and help Dani and JT."

"Uh, Boss?" JT waited until Gil looked at him. "You think it a good idea to leave Sorcha in the same building as Swanson?"

_Especially after their last showdown_, he added silently. Not that he didn't think Swanson deserved it. The agent did. They just didn't need to go another round with the clock ticking down.

"Right." Gil looked at Sorcha. "You're with me." To JT and Dani he repeated his earlier order. "You two go through those photo albums and see what you can come up with."

"Sure thing." JT turned to amble from the room. He stopped to look at Sorcha. "Swanson says anything about Bright, I'll shut her up."

A small smile curved Sorcha's lips. "Thank you."

"Bright's one of us," was all he said before he exited Gil's office.


	22. Chapter 22

Malcolm stared at the ceiling of his underground prison as a flurry of things spun through his mind at nauseating speed. He put his hands to his head and prayed for the images, thoughts, and searing pain to stop.

_Just five minutes_, he begged whatever gods might be listening to his pathetic pleas. _Just give me five minutes of nothing in my head so I can try to figure out what to do here_.

It didn't seem like all that much to ask for really.

Not that he deserved their pity.

Or their mercy.

Malcolm found himself relived when the pulsating pain behind his eyes subsided to a low, dull throb. His thoughts stilled.

Only the images took their time in going away.

He learned to live with them as he did the dark things tearing at his steadily fraying nerves.

Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief for the same reprieve. It wasn't much but it did allow him to force his messed-up brain to function.

The vacant expression on Owen Shannon's face swam across his visual field and disrupted what little calm he found.

The longer he was imprisoned in this stone playground of Watkins, the less confident he became at his chances of escaping.

Of surviving.

The long cold fingers of death crawled over him, pulled at him, lured him to follow them down into the dark abyss that waited for him.

Part of him considered giving in, giving up. Following those fingers to whatever one of the nine levels of Hell they'd take him too.

He was tired, so tired.

Tired of fighting the memories, the dark things inside his head, and the father who quite likely tried to kill him while on a camping trip with the man who now held him.

"Am I worth fighting for?" he heard from the shadows. "Is Gil? Ainsley? Your mom?"

"Not you, too," he groaned. "Wasn't my hallucination of your father enough?"

"My father is the side of you that is the former FBI agent. Me? I'm your heart."

"Funny," he said as he rolled to his side. “I'd have thought you're my profiler side."

A soft laugh sounded before Sorcha floated from the shadows. Her grace and simple beauty stunned him.

As it always did.

Her dress, a rich crimson shade, fit her loosely, left those long legs of hers bare from mid-thigh to her feet.

She wore no shoes and no jewelry.

He hadn't given her first charm bracelet to her when she wore this dress the first time.

Malcolm picked out the faint blue and gold threads among the scarlet as she drew closer to him. Such a color normally was his subconscious mind issuing warnings about something being potentially dangerous.

With her, though, it was less a warning about her being a threat, and more a memory of the first time she took his breath away.

"You thought I was dangerous that night."

"Because you got Tad's car towed and humiliated Leslie by insinuating I never planned to go with her to that Valentines mixer."

"I planned to do a lot more to her than that."

"That's why I got you out of there as quickly as I could."

"Party pooper." She pouted prettily. "I just wanted to throw her champagne in her face."

"Right." He groaned as pain shot across his chest. "You wanted to hit her."

"I wanted to scratch her eyes out for what she did to you."

And she'd have done it if he hadn't ushered her from the restaurant.

"Why do you hold yourself back from me then?"

"I don't hold myself back..." Malcolm frowned as he looked up at her. "Do I?"

"Yes, you do." She sunk to her knees beside him, her exotic scent wrapping itself around him, and bringing much needed calm. "You allow me close to you but still keep a part of yourself from me."

"Because I don't want to hurt you."

_Like I almost hurt Eve._

"You've never hurt me. Not once."

"I could, though."

"I've been through countless night terrors." Her sigh cruised over his clammy flesh. "I've been there for the hallucinations. Have you hurt me during any of them?"

"I almost killed..."

"Do you think Eve is the first woman you've lashed out at while you were in the grips of a hallucination or night terror?" She shook her head. "You've lashed out at Mandy and I." She fisted her hands on her hips. "And we're still here, you dope. We still love you."

Malcolm stared into eyes that on first glance seemed an ordinary shade of brown. When a beam of light hit them, they changed to amber. Became pure honey around the iris. His favorite, though was when she looked up at the sun.

Then her eyes became almost green.

Like they did when they were in Hawaii.

"Stop remembering our island getaway and start thinking of a way to get out of this predicament."

"I don't think I can get out of this," he admitted with a soft grunt. "Watkins—"

"Is doing this to get revenge on your father."

A cold, hard truth. One Malcolm routinely denied every time she suggested it. Now, though? After what Watkins revealed to him about their plans for him on that camping trip?

He couldn't be so sure.

His anger and bitterness over his father not fulfilling his promises to him on the camping trip drove his motive. As had his fury over his stabbing him with that knife. Something he still didn't understand his doing.

"He threatened you. That's why you stabbed him."

"I don't remember that, though."

"You don't need to remember it. You just need to trust yourself."

He gave her a wry look. "Wouldn't it be simpler to wish for the moon or stars?"

Sorcha frowned at him. "Focus… what does Watkins want?"

"He wants to break me." His breath hitched. "He wants to turn me into them. Make me into a killer."

"Right. Why? What does breaking you accomplish? What does it give him? It's not like he wants or needs a partner to work with. He's done just fine for twenty years. So, why does he want to break you?"

"To deny my father the pleasure of being the one to do it."

"Because the ultimate way of getting back at a malignant narcissist like Martin Whitly is by shattering his fantasy." A small smile graced her lips. "By taking his toy away from him."

"I'm not a toy."

"Martin Whitly sees you as a research project he's invested years in." The words hurt. Not because they were a lie but because they were the brutal truth. "You're a lab rat he's conditioned to respond to his commands. Same as Pavlov did his dogs."

Classical conditioning. The sort of grooming techniques a man like his father would instead of using the technique to break a hostage and get them to do things they wouldn't ordinarily do, he used them on him.

His own son.

"We're the same." The words poured from him as the image of his father, handcuffed but smiling, filled his vision. "He made us the same."

"You're not the same, though." Velvet steel coated every word. "That's why Watkins wants to break you. Because you're not the same as Martin Whitly. Not yet."

"I don't know what Watkins has planned." His vision fractured as his voice broke. "What trials he has in mind for me."

"He's going to make you kill someone."

"No." The word came out breathier than he liked. "I won't."

"Then fight, Mal."

"I can't." He blew out a breath as pain rippled across his chest. "I'm not strong enough to fight him."

"You're stronger than you think you are."

"No, I'm not."

"I believe in you." Sorcha stroked a hand over his hair. "You need to believe in you. You need to fight, Mal. For me, but especially for yourself."

"I can't..."

"Yes, you can." Her face set. "If you don't, I will do the one thing you don't want me to do: confront your father."

"No!" Malcolm surged to his knees, heedless of the white hot agony that ripped across his chest or the fresh blood that flowed. "No! I don't want you going anywhere near him!"

"Martin Whitly knows where you are." Her hands framed his face, thumbs stroking away the tears that stained his cheeks. "He can tell us where Watkins is holding you."

"Stay away from my father," he implored her, reaching up to grasp her hands in his shaking ones. "Promise me, Sorcha." His hands trembled against hers. "Promise me you'll stay away from my father."

"Fight then, Mal." She rest her forehead against his. "Find a way to let me and Gil and JT and Dani know where you are so we can come and help you."

"How?" Frustration blistered the air between them. "He's chained me up like an animal."

"Fight smarter..."

"Your father used that one." He stared into her eyes. "It hasn't helped."

"Because you _listened_ to what I had to say about Batman but you've never _applied_ the knowledge to yourself."

"I'm not a superhero is why."

He always told her he was more an antihero than anything. More Gregory House or Jack Sparrow than Batman or Captain America.

"Still not applying what I told you."

"Get out of my head."

"Considering this is all in your head?" Her lips brushed his skin in a feathery kiss. Set off aches that had nothing to do with what Watkins had done to him. "That's a bit of an oxymoron."

"You're not helping."

"I've done exactly what you needed me to do, actually." Sorcha leaned back to look at him. "That's why you conjured me. Because it's let you refocus your mind. Pushed the panic and fear back. Allowed you to start thinking rationally and sensibly again."

Malcolm rattled the chains holding him in place.

"Haven't figured out how to get out of these."

"You know how to get out of those cuffs, Mal." Her hand came up to rest against his cheek, those quick clever fingers stroking over his cheek. "You know the answer. You just have to let yourself process the information and work up to it."

"I don't have anything to break these chains with."

"Remember in _Goblet of Fire_ when Harry said to Mad-Eye he didn't have a broom? What did Mad-Eye remind him that he did have?"

"A wand."

"Look for your wand, Potter."

"Sorch…"

"Time's running out, Mal. Find your wand and get yourself out of here or I'm going to confront your father."

She made to get up then but he grabbed her in a hard embrace.

"Don't!" He pleaded. "Don't leave me!"

"I've never left you, you danger prone idiot. I'm always with you. I'm your heart, remember?" She indicated her dress with a sweep of her hand. "Why else do you think you're seeing me in this? With my hair long and loose?"

"That Valentine's is one of my favorite memories."

Next to the first Christmas he spent with her and her family. The one where Ian Corbin told him he didn't believe people were born broken.

That he wasn't broken.

"You kissed me that night."

_Under the street lamp outside her apartment_. Malcolm remembered it. He also recalled being terrified after he stepped back. Sorcha's head cocked to the side, her gaze curious.

"Why?"

"I figured you'd either laugh at me or hit me."

"Hm, I recall kissing you back."

"You did." A small smile curved his lips. "Then your dad called."

She hummed a laugh.

"He had as good a dad-mode as Gil does. Always called when we were doing something fun."

"He should have told you to stay away from me."

"He loved you." She took his quaking hand between her own. "Same as Gil loves you."

_Gil_, he thought as her thumb stroked over the back of his hand. "He has to be going out of his mind right now."

"He's got me he's dealing with." Her eyes crinkled at the corner with her smile. "You're a picnic compared to me."

"Is that supposed to inspire me to get myself free?" His lips trembled, slightly curved. "So I can save Gil from you?"

"I love you." Sorcha leaned in to kiss him. Warmth flooded his system. Thawed his frozen bones. "Is that enough of a reason to get yourself free?"

"Sorch, I..."

She placed her fingers across his lips. Shook her head.

"Tell me when you get out of this mess you're in."

"I will," he vowed as he heard something — a door? — open in the distance. "I will."

Malcolm just hoped he'd be sane enough to keep that promise.


	23. Chapter 23

Telling Jessica that Bright had been kidnapped by a serial killer, one they believed had been working with the Surgeon went about as well as Gil expected.

"You're telling me my son is in the hands of a _serial killer_?"

"Yes."

Fury mingled with the shock on Jessica's ashen face. Her gaze swung between him and Sorcha. Openly accusatory and silently demanding how such a thing could have happened when they both were supposedly watching out for him.

"Can one of you, _please_, explain how this happened?"

It was on the tip of Gil's tongue to remind Jessica that Malcolm Bright did what Malcolm Bright wanted but that'd only increase her annoyance. Same with telling her that Bright walked into Watkins grasp by not waiting for backup to arrive.

While perfectly true, it wasn't something Jessica didn't need to hear.

Not at that moment, anyway.

There'd be time later, after the kid was safe and sound, to tell her exactly how and why he ended up in the hands of John Watkins. _Bright can do the explaining himself_, Gil decided as he sat forward in his chair. For now, he told Jessica what he decided she needed to know.

"Bright discovered the real identity of the Junkyard Killer during our investigation of the death of the Deputy Commissioner."

That part was safe to tell her. It was the truth. It didn't please her to hear, of course, but it smoothed the way for everything else he had yet to reveal.

"And this is the man who has my son?"

"Yes."

"How?" Jessica demanded. "How did my son end up being kidnapped by this... this..." She tossed her hands into the hands. "_Serial killer_?" She puffed out a breath. "Not that I can't imagine how he ended up in the hands of this man. My son is attracted to danger. Why else would he continue to see his father despite repeatedly being asked not to do so?"

The only reason the kid started seeing his father again was because of him. Because he went to Bright soon as he heard about him being back in New York and asked for help.

_Now, he's in the hands of a man who worked with his father. _

All because he pulled the kid back into law enforcement instead of helping him find a new, safe career path.

"Jessica, he was waiting at the location he tracked the Junkyard Killer when he was kidnapped."

It wasn't a complete fabrication.

Bright did find an address for John Watkins during his search through whatever files the deputy commissioner had put together.

He did go to the house.

Watkins did ambush him and he did kidnap him.

The only part he left out was that he found Ian Turner's files with the help of Owen Shannon.

Hearing it was Owen Shannon — who Jessica vowed to ruin after what he did to the kid in that interrogation room without her knowledge or consent — was the one Bright worked with to figure out who the Junkyard Killer was would only infuriate her.

_More than she is already. _

Gil exchanged a quick look with Sorcha. Silently warning her to not divulge that bit of information to Jessica.

Not that he needed to worry.

Sorcha understood the Whitly family better than he, himself. She knew that where Malcolm Bright idled at moody, Jessica Whitly tended to loiter around coolly irate.

"How long ago did this happen?"

"We believe Bright was taken somewhere after seven this evening."

"What?" Incredulity trembled in that single word. "And I'm only hearing about this _now_?"

"We had to investigate, Jessica."

"Why weren't you with him?" Her eyes shot daggers at him. Cutting Gil deeper than any knife could. "Why did you let him out of your sight? You know how Malcolm is when he's working a case."

"You can't blame, Gil," Sorcha said softly, soothingly. "Malcolm was heading here for dinner."

"And you know this? You can confirm it?"

"Yes." She took a seat beside Jessica on the couch. Close enough she could reach out and take her hand. She didn't, though. Respecting the boundaries between them despite the circumstances. "He told me he was on his way here in one of the text messages he sent me."

"And yet he never arrived."

"An informant tipped him off about the identity of the Junkyard Killer before he got here."

"And who is this man?"

"His name is John Watkins."

"The former Paul Lazar," Sorcha added.

Jessica's gaze swung to her.

"The man who that horrid woman was here investigating?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember anyone by that name coming here to see Dr. Whitly?" Gil asked her. "Going on his camping trips with him?"

A frown marred Jessica's smooth forehead. "No. I did not ask Martin about what he did on his camping trips." An oversight which plagued her. Jessica, like her son, blamed herself for not realizing sooner what her husband was and putting a stop to him. "Why?"

"It would have helped us in figuring out where Watkins might have taken Bright."

"You have no idea where this man has taken my son?" Dismay crossed her face. "Surely you have some idea of where he might have taken him."

"Our first thought is a cabin he and your..." Sorcha trailed off, clearly struggling with finding the appropriate words to address Martin Whitly by. "Dr. Whitly," she finally settled on with a small moue, "used for their camping trips."

"I know nothing about any cabin that man used for these camping trips of his."

"Can you think of any place Dr. Whitly went a lot that might be significant to Malcolm?"

"No." Jessica's frown deepened. "Not unless you count our Hampton cottage."

"No." Sorcha shook her head. "The Hampton's wouldn't be significant to someone like Watkins. He'd want somewhere remote, isolated, and private."

Jessica's face drained of what little color it regained. "Are you saying he plans on _killing_ Malcolm?"

"No, that's not what Sorcha's saying." Gil shot a reproving look at her. "Is it?"

"Killing Malcolm is the last thing that Watkins wants to do." The hands folded in Sorcha's lap trembled, once, then steadied. Like Jessica, Sorcha hid her nerves beneath an iron will and glacier calm. "I won't lie to you, though." She lifted somber eyes to Jessica's. "Just because Watkins won't kill Malcolm doesn't mean he's not in a great amount of danger. He is. And not simply because he's in the hands of a prolific killer." She drew in a breath, released it slowly. "He's off his medication. Is sleep-deprived on a good day. And hasn't eaten more than the bowl of soup I forced him to eat yesterday. He's vulnerable. And Watkins is going to prey on that vulnerability to accomplish what he wants."

"Why?" Only the thin, reedy note in Jessica's tone gave away her anxious state. "What does he want with Malcolm?"

"Revenge."

"Revenge?" Her startled gaze shot to Gil. "For what?"

"We don't know," Gil admitted. "Best we can assume is that he wants to punish Martin. Either for something that happened on that camping trip or after."

"This is about Martin?" Rage thrummed in Jessica's voice. Shone on her face. "Of course, it is. Why wouldn't it be? Everything's about Martin." She pushed to her feet and stalked to the sideboard where glasses and a decanter half-full sat. "He hasn't traumatized this family, especially his son, enough."

"That's why we have to talk to him, Jessica."

Jessica looked over her shoulder at Sorcha. "The last thing Malcolm would want is you talking to his father."

"I've confronted Dr. Whitly before."

"What?"

Gil ignored that and asked, "When did you confront Dr. Whitly?"

"The day Malcolm told him he wouldn't be seeing him any more because he was applying to the FBI."

Gil remembered that day as Jessica came back with a tumbler half full of amber liquid. Sorcha called him from Claremont to tell him Bright had a breakdown while visiting his father.

Begged him to come help because the doctors wanted to send the kid to a hospital nearby.

Something he heard Bright strongly opposing in the background.

He and Jackie arrived to find the kid heavily sedated and Jessica screaming at the doctors. They got the kid out of there with the help of Dr. Le Deux and Jessica threatening legal action if they didn't allow her to bring him home.

Bright never explained what caused him to snap.

Not to him, anyway.

He had a feeling Sorcha knew, though.

And it pushed her to confront Martin Whitly.

_Oh, to have been a fly on the wall for that discussion. _

"And how exactly did he react to your visit?"

"He wasn't real happy." Sorcha moved the curtains to look outside. "Especially since I told him that I was going to hurt him by taking away his prized possession. His boy." Her voice dropped an octave. "His boomerang. He didn't believe me."

"Of course, he wouldn't." Jessica took a long swallow of her drink. "The man is incredibly arrogant."

"Malcolm stayed away from Martin Whitly for ten years. Not perfect years but good years. He was able to live as close to a normal life as he could during that time. Because I convinced him that continuing to see his father wasn't worth everything he worked to accomplish at Harvard."

"And look where we are now."

"I'll make it happen again," Sorcha vowed in a hard voice. "I'll break that man's hold over Malcolm if it's the last thing I do."

_That's exactly why_, Gil decided as he stood in the doorway of the conference room and watched Sorcha going through some files she retrieved from Bright's loft with Dani, _confronting Martin Whitly is the last thing she is going to do. _

"Hey, Boss?"

Gil shook from his dark musings to glance at JT.

"What is it?"

"Think we might have gotten a lead on that cabin Watkins and Bright's old man might have used."

"What's the lead?"

"An old photograph." JT offered him a Polaroid. "Found it in one of the photo albums."

Gil stared at the faded photograph. A medium-shaped wood cabin nestled among trees.

Nothing about the cabin made it stand out to him.

Nothing made it overly special.

_Except for how isolated it is_, he realized, hope sparking in his chest.

Exactly the sort of location serial killers like John Watkins and Martin Whitly preferred.

The nearest town wouldn't be for miles, no chance of anyone disturbing them as they tortured their victims, and no likelihood of the bodies ever being found because of how remote the location was.

"Do we have a location?"

"Swanson is running it down now."

Gil handed him the picture back.

"She gets a location, I want you and Powell tagging along. Just in case Bright is there."

"What about fem-Bright?" Indicating Sorcha with a nod. "You want us to take her with us in case we find his scrawny ass?"

Gil had been debating that himself the last half-hour. In the end, he decided keeping Swanson and Sorcha as far away from each other as possible was the best solution all around.

"I'm taking Sorcha with me."

"You sure? I mean, she speaks Bright better than all of us. Could be useful having her there if we find him. Especially if..."

JT didn't finish that statement. He had no need. None of them knew what condition the kid would be in once they found him. How lucid he'd be. Sorcha possessed the necessary skills for dealing with someone in that condition. It made sense to have her along.

"I want her with me when I go talk to Martin Whitly."

A conversation he was certain would be far from pleasant.

For him, anyway.

"You're gonna let her near Bright's serial killer father?" One of JT's brows quirked. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"I'm not letting her near Dr. Whitly." Mostly because he didn't trust Sorcha not to attack the man. Something Gil often debated but never did because of the pain it'd cause Bright. "She can listen to the conversation and tell me what, if anything, he says is the actual truth."

"She's got a pretty accurate bullshit detector."

Gil's lips inched into a small smile. "That she does."

"She's also got her dial-a-Bright set to the right channel."

"With the volume turned down low."

JT grunted. "If only she could teach Bright how to do that."

Gil chuckled softly. "She likes him as he is."

"Yeah." JT headed towards the conference room. "That's why we gotta find Captain Dangerous."

Gil resumed his vigil, silently hoping Martin Whitly would willingly give him the answers he needed to find Bright, but vowing to make him pay if he didn't.


	24. Chapter 24

"Bright doesn't know you confronted his father, does he?"

Gil had wanted to ask her that back at Jessica's but refrained. Now hadn't been the time to delve into the subject. Now, though? There was nothing to stop him from asking.

"No," came Sorcha's quiet reply. "He doesn't."

It was the exact response he expected to receive so he wasn't shocked. On one hand, he applauded Sorcha her daring and desire to protect the kid from the person who continually hurt him the most.

On the other, he worried that this would strain the relationship between the two. Bright and trust issues went together like strawberries and whip cream. Learning she went to his father and then didn't tell him about it would likely upset the kid. Which was why she hadn't told him made no sense.

"Why didn't you tell him you confronted Dr. Whitly?"

Sorcha shifted in her seat for the tenth time since they left the precinct, a bundle of energy despite not having slept a wink in the last twenty-four hours. _Like Bright would be if he was the one sitting next to me_, he mused as he stomped on the accelerator.

"It would only have upset him at the time," she said finally. "He was clear on wanting me to never meet his father so I decided to omit I had done so after his breakdown to save us from another. As to why I still haven't told him?" She blew out a breath. "Cowardice, partially. And there never seemed an appropriate time to discuss it."

"Dr. Whitly chose to keep it quiet, too." Gil guided the LeMan's around some cars going to slow for his liking. "My question is why. That's not typical of a man like him." He slanted a quick glance at her. "Did you threaten him with anything if he told Bright about your visit?"

"You mean like great physical harm if he told him about our talk?" Sorcha harrumphed. "No, I threatened that after whatever he did to cause Malcolm's breakdown. Along with promising that he'd never see Malcolm again if I had anything to say about it."

_So, she doesn't know what caused Bright's breakdown_, Gil mused as a car pulled up alongside him. Of anyone he figured the kid would tell about what happened, it was her.

_Unless he doesn't remember what triggered his breakdown. _

Which was likely given how much of the kid's memories had been blocked out from the combination of the chloroform Martin Whitly used, the trauma he suffered, and Bright's own mind trying to protect him from whatever happened.

"Why didn't he reveal your visit to Bright?" One brow quirked as he tried to puzzle that out for himself. "Can't see your threat to keep Bright from him as enough of a reason for him to keep silent."

"Storing it up to use at a more advantageous moment."

"That sounds like Dr. Whitly."

_More than like him_, _in fact, _he realized, jaw clenching.

"Martin Whitly is an opportunist," Sorcha said as she again shifted in her seat. "He takes advantage of weaknesses. Exploits vulnerabilities. That's how he gains control over people."

_Especially his son_, Gil thought, fingers tightening on the wheel.

There was nothing Martin Whitly liked more than having control over Bright. Which raised an interesting question in Gil's mind.

"Why do you think he has held this particular ace in the hole for so long?"

"Because it's the only card he has to play against me."

"Why wait to play it then?" Gil had to tamp down his frustration when he found himself stuck between two slow moving vehicles. He'd change lanes but a Greyhound on his other side had him effectively trapped in slowpoke hell. To stop himself from flipping on the siren he asked, "What does he hope to gain from using this against you?"

"Breaking me and Malcolm up." Sorcha laughed but it lacked any real amusement. "He doesn't view me as suitable for his son. Not that I care what the narcissistic bastard thinks."

"Bright doesn't care what he thinks." Gil caught her looking at him inquisitively from the corner of his eye. "If it came between picking you or him, Martin Whitly knows he'd lose."

"That's why he wants to get rid of me. And you," she added, tone hard as tempered steel. "We pose the largest threat to him and his hold over Malcolm. Getting rid of us is his only way of getting complete control over him. He will use any means he has too to make that happen."

_Even kill one of us_, Gil realized, stomach clenching. Martin Whitly would have absolutely no problem with murdering either of them to get total control over Bright.

"I brought Bright back into contact with him." Guilt weighed heavily on his heart and soul for his role in reconnecting the kid with his father. "If I hadn't..."

"If it hadn't been the copycat Quartet case it would have been another."

"You really believe Dr. Whitly has been manipulating things from his cell at Claremont?"

Not that Gil wouldn't put it past him. Martin Whitly was cunning, clever, and coy. He thrived on control. Lived for manipulation. _Which is why he doesn't like either of us_, he realized as an opening between the Greyhound and the van in front of him became available. _He can't control us. Manipulate us as he does his family and the staff at Claremont_.

"I believe Dr. Whitly staged the Quartet case for the purpose of getting Malcolm brought in on it."

"Knowing he'd have to go and visit him at some point to get information from him."

"Yes."

That fit the manipulative nature of Martin Whitly. Much of what the man had done as of late had been done with the purpose of forcing Bright to see him.

"Do you think he had Watkins kidnap Malcolm?"

That thought had lurked in the back of his mind since he found out the kid had been kidnapped. It wasn't something he foresaw Martin Whitly doing because he believed the man did love Bright in his own twisted fashion. However, he couldn't stop wondering if maybe, just maybe, the kid had been taken because of a much larger plan concocted by his father.

"I initially thought there was a possibility Watkins was working with Dr. Whitly," Sorcha said as Claremont Psychiatric loomed in front of them. "It explained why he let Malcolm go when he had him in that tunnel." She breathed out a sigh. "It's still a possibility, I suppose... Dr. Whitly is not above having his son kidnapped if it means getting him under his control."

"But you don't think so."

"No," she said as he pulled into the parking lot. "I still believe that this is about revenge. Something happened on that camping trip between Martin Whitly and John Watkins. Something that broke their partnership apart."

"Only Dr. Whitly can answer what."

"If he will."

Gil pulled into a parking spot and cut the ignition. "You don't think he will?"

"Not if you don't catch him off guard as soon as you enter his cell, no."Sorcha shifted to face him. "You have to take control as soon as you enter that cell. Claim the power position before he can."

Gil could only think of one way to do that.

"You think I need to open with Watkins having kidnapped Bright."

"His reaction will tell us if he's involved or if I'm right and this is about revenge."

Gil stared at the hospital, his thoughts a jumbled mass, and his nerves fraying even more at the seams. Talking to Martin Whitly was at the bottom of his list of things he had no desire to do again. For Bright, though, he'd do it.

_Because it's the only way to get the kid back_.

"Gil?" Sorcha must have sensed his disquiet because she set a hand on his arm. "Why don't you let me talk to Dr. Whitly? He won't expect it. It could give us the edge we need."

"No." Gil reached for the door handle. "I'll do it." _I have__ to do it_, he corrected silently. _I have to face Martin__ Whitly and get the answers we need from him. _Before he opened the door and stepped from the car he added, tone firm,_ "_And don't you even think of pulling a Bright and following me in."

Sorcha harrumphed as she climbed from the car.

"Fine."

_Yeah, exactly what Bright would say before completely ignoring me and following me in there_, Gil thought, hiding a small smile.

Unlike with the kid, though, he was prepared to stop Sorcha before she even set one foot in the hallway that led to Martin Whitly's cell.

...

Dani could tell before she stepped from the SUV that the cabin would be empty. _And it has__ been for a long time from the looks of it_. She tamped down her growing frustration and rising fears as she, JT and Colette Swanson made a sweep of the basement before turning their focus to inside the cabin itself.

A thick coating of dust and grime covered the windows, the floor, and the few pieces of furniture left to slowly rot. Dani lowered her gun as she turned to look at JT.

"Bright is definitely not here."

JT grunted as he holstered his gun. "Bright-lite warned us Watkins wouldn't pick this place because it was too obvious."

"It was the only lead we had." Dani holstered her gun. "We had to check it out."

"Hopefully, they'll get something out of Bright's crazy ass father that will tell us where Watkins took Captain Dumbass."

"She was right about this," Dani said with a wave. "Pretty sure she'll have something figured out by the time they get to Claremont."

"Miss Corbin got lucky this time." Agent Swanson's lips curled with contempt as she gazed about the room. "If she was half as good as she thinks..."

"She is that good." JT's tone was curt. A sure sign his patience with the surly-tempered agent was wearing thin. Not that Dani could blame him. Hers started wearing out hours ago but she kept from biting Swanson's head off by remembering Bright's life was the one in jeopardy. "She's figured out stuff you haven't even considered."

Swanson sent JT a fulminating glare before biting out, "She's gotten lucky is all, Detective Tarmel."

"Luck or not," Dani said with a frown, "Sorcha is doing her best to help Bright."

_Which is more than I can say for you_, she added silently. Not that Dani could claim she was all that surprised by the agent's attitude. Colette Swanson made it clear from the moment she took over this case that she was there to help Bright into a pair of handcuffs and a cell next to his father's at Claremont Psychiatric Hospital.

"Miss Corbin refuses to accept Bright is working with Watkins."

"You're the one who can't accept things." JT glowered at the agent. "You want to see Bright as a killer despite all of us telling you he isn't."

"That is the only way to see Bright."

"I should have let Bright-lite hit you back at the precinct." JT turned away but not before getting one more parting shot. "Might let her do it when we get back."

"You're out of line, Detective."

"No, Agent Swanson," Dani said before she turned to follow him outside. "You are, actually."

"I tried to warn you about Bright, Detective Powell. Don't be shocked when you find out I was right about him all along."

"Is that what you'll be?" Dani paused to look back. "When you find out you've been wrong this entire time?"

She left Swanson to stew then, needing to let Gil know they turned up a dead-end, and find out what he wanted them to do next.


	25. Chapter 25

Watkins had a contemplative look on his face. Trying to read that expression proved impossible. The man was a master at concealing his inner thoughts. Something Malcolm found increasingly frustrating but there was nothing he could do about it.

"You want to break me." His voice wasn't as strong or as steady as he'd have liked it but fatigue and blood loss played a significant part for why it wasn't. "You can't."

"See, there, Malcolm, you're wrong. I can break you."

"My, uh, father tried." Flippancy wasn't exactly wise but it was the only weapon Malcolm possessed at the moment. "He failed."

"You're the same, remember?" The words cut to the quick. Something Watkins clearly relished. "See, like Martin, you love your family." A small smile appeared through the dark whiskers covering his mouth. "It's your fatal flaw."

"Yeah?" Malcolm blew out a breath. "Trust me, it's not even my worst one."

"Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm." Watkins shook his head. "Why else do you think I brought you here?"

"Ah, well, I was hoping it was because you were going to give me some answers about the girl in the box..."

"Enough with the girl in the box." All humor gone, Watkins sat forward. "I've told you all I am going to tell you about her."

Those words bounced around inside Malcolm's head. The implication in them was clear: Watkins knew more about the girl in the box than he was letting on. Either because he wasn't willing to share what he knew with him or because he couldn't.

Malcolm found himself wondering which it was. Not for the first time, and he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last time, he wondered if Watkins wasn't working with someone who also wanted revenge on Martin Whitly.

Given the number of victims his father had, it wouldn't be all that surprising.

"So, how do you plan to break me?" His mouth was dry but a drink wasn't in the cards. "What are my trials going to be?"

"Oh, you've already passed your first one." Watkins indicated his side with a wave of his hand. "You survived being stabbed. Like I did."

"What's next?"

"Sacrifice." A chill swept down Malcolm's spine as Watkins eyes gleamed in the faint light. "Sacrifice will be your final trial, in fact." His smile returned. "Don't worry, though it won't be something you have to do. It's just something you have to... endure." Watkins reached into the bag he carried down with him what had to have been hours ago. Malcolm's heart stopped as he slid an axe out and rest it across his knees. "I'll do the doing."

...

Dani called Gil soon as she was outside. She didn't even wait for him to say hello. She just blurted out, "Bright's not here," soon as it stopped ringing.

"_Any sign that he could have been there but was moved_?"

"Negative." She allowed her gaze to wander around the property, hoping for something; anything that'd give them a clue as to where Watkins took Bright. "It doesn't look like anyone has been here in years."

"_Probably hasn't been used since the Surgeon was arrested_."

"What do you want us to do?"

"_Head back to the precinct_," was Gil's tired reply. "_I'm about to go in and talk with Dr. Whitly. See if I can't find out from him where Watkins took Bright_."

"Do you think he will tell you?"

A sigh came through the phone.

"_We can only hope he will_."

He didn't need to add that Dr. Whitly was their last hope for finding Bright. If he didn't divulge a list of places Watkins might pick to use they had nothing else to go on.

"Maybe..." Dani paused, knowing she was getting dangerously close to that line she never crossed with Gil but not seeing any other option if Dr. Whitly refused to help them. "Maybe you better reconsider letting Sorcha talk to him."

"_If Dr. Whitly won't talk to me._.." Gil said as JT came lumbering up to her, "_I will let Sorcha talk to him_." Dani could imagine him wiping a hand over his face right before he added, "_I'm hoping he will talk with me, though. I want to avoid putting her in his cage with him if I can_."

"JT and I will go back through the photo albums and see if we can find another location that Watkins might have used."

"_Call me if you find anything_."

Dani slid her phone back into her pocket.

"Boss still don't want to let Bright-lite have a crack at his dad?"

"No." Her brow creased. "And I don't know why. She knows how to interview men like Martin Whitly."

"Boss feels he failed to protect Bright from a serial killer." JT turned as Swanson exited the cabin. "No way is he gonna fail to protect Bright-lite from one."

"I think he should be worrying about what she could do to Bright's father if he doesn't tell them where Watkins could be holding him."

"Yeah, well, that's his other reason for keeping mini-Bright away from him." JT slanted a look at her. "Doesn't want to arrest her for murdering Bright's father."

Swanson signaled for them to leave.

Head back to the precinct.

Where they'd search through the photographs and paperwork they searched through a hundred times already.

Only to come up against dead-end after dead-end.

And with a clock slowly running out the more time passed.

...

"No." The word came out barely a whisper. It was the best he could muster given the condition he was in. "You don't have to do this."

"Oh, but I do." Watkins made a sound, almost like a purr, deep in his throat. "It's my calling, Malcolm."

"It doesn't have to be."

Watkins twirled the axe in one hand. If not for the fact that he was a madman looking to kill his family as a way to break him and make his father pay for whatever happened on the camping trip, he might have appreciated his skill.

"I disagree."

"I know that voice," Malcolm said, desperate now to try and get through to him. To stop Watkins before he took that axe and left this underground room. "The one inside your head. Trust me, it will never be satisfied." He gazed at him imploringly. "And neither will you."

"Well, Malcolm." Watkins chuckled softly. "On that we agree."

Malcolm grasped for anything he could use. Reasoning with serial killers was what he did. It was what he was good at. Only, John Watkins wasn't the average serial killer.

No, he was in a league almost by himself.

"I hear that voice, too," he finally told him. "It's my father. I can hear him. I can see him." His hands shook on the cold pavement. Hard enough the chains rattled. He ignored it, pushing on, saying whatever came to mind to try to sway Watkins from his murderous path. "I don't have to listen to him. So, don't. Don't listen to that voice inside your head."

"The thing is, Malcolm." Watkins tossed the axe in an expert move, the blade glinting as the light fell across it. "I like the voice. It's a part of me. And right now?" He caught it with ease and slung it over his shoulder before he started to amble away. "It's telling me to hurry."

Malcolm went cold to the marrow. Desperation and bile surged up his throat to foam into his mouth. He swallowed both back and called out to Watkins, desperate now to stop him from going after his mother and sister.

"Watkins, wait!" The man started whistling as he disappeared into the darkness. "Watkins!"

...

Talking with Dr. Whitly went exactly as Gil expected it would.

The first few minutes he seemed content to just play mind games with him. Berate him for his relationship with his wife and son. Then Gil told him Watkins had Malcolm and he fell to pieces. Part of Gil wondered if the panic attack wasn't for show. The other didn't have time to focus on it.

"Martin? I need you to focus."

Not that the man seemed able to do so.

"Where would he take, Bright? Dr. Whitly, I need you to tell me where he took him."

"I know where Watkins took my boy," he whispered in a second of lucidity. "Yes, I know where he took him."

"Where?"

"Too late." Martin's eyes drifted closed. "He's gonna kill them all."

"Martin!" Gil went to grab his arm but the orderlies stopped him. "Martin! You need to tell me where Watkins took Bright!"

"Too late," he repeated again. "You'll be too late. He'll have killed them all by the time you get there."

"Where?" Gil demanded. "Where does he have him? You have to tell me!"

"There's no place like home," Martin mumbled. "There's no place like home."

No, Gil thought as his heart dropped into his stomach. Watkins couldn't have been hiding in the Whitly home this entire time.

They'd have heard Bright shouting for help.

_Not if he's being held underground_…

Gil swept from the small room, almost tripping over himself as he headed back to where he left Sorcha. Soon as he saw her, he said, "Watkins has Bright..."

"In the Whitly home." Her expression was grave. "I figured it out after Dr. Whitly mentioned a deep cellar. He and Watkins would have had a murder room under the Whitly home. Probably near Martin's hobby room."

"C'mon," he told her, heading for the exit. "Text Dani and tell her and JT to meet us there."

"Alright."

...

Dani's phone buzzed. She yanked it from her pocket, silently praying Gil had gotten a location out of Bright's father. The message on her home screen had hope soaring shooting through her.

"Watkins has Bright at his mother's house."

"He's been at his mom's house this whole time?" JT eyed her from the driver's seat. "Where?"

"Apparently, there's a room somewhere beneath the house Watkins might have used while working with Bright's dad."

"Of course there is." JT stomped down on the accelerator. "Should have known his skinny ass be somewhere weird."

"Have to hope he's still alive."

"Bright's alive." JT's fingers flexed on the wheel. "Guy might be a danger prone dumbass but he's a lot stronger than he lets on."

"Bright's off his medication." Something Sorcha had repeatedly reminded them about. "Withdrawal symptoms for someone as dependent as he is can be dangerous." Dani stared out the windshield, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. "Who knows what shape he will be in when we find him."

"Mini-Bright will know what to do."

Dani hoped JT was right.

Last thing she wanted to see was Bright ending up in an institution like his father.

"I'll let Swanson know where Bright is being held."

JT merely grunted and hit the gas.

...

Pain, exhaustion, mind-numbing fear and anxiety, blood loss, dehydration, and missing one dose — minimum — of the medications that kept him functional had his world dissolving into a thick gray haze.

His body ached from the top of his head all the way to his toes.

Nausea clawed at his belly, helped by the drum solo being played across his forehead.

Malcolm pushed through his discomforts, determined to do one thing before the shrouded figure trailing after him drug him into the fiery pits he deserved: save his mother and sister from the monster his father brought into their midst.

How he planned to accomplish that... he had no clue.

"Fight smarter, Malcolm, not harder."

Malcolm lifted his head and stared at the man standing at the opening to his father's hobby room. His lips quirked, the most he could accomplish in his current physical and mental state.

"You ingrained that ideology in her, didn't you?"

"I ingrained it in you, too." A gentle smile creased Ian's lips. "I started to impart the same wisdom to you that I did her the moment she brought you home."

"Why?"

"Because I saw the good in you, Malcolm. The potential. Like Gil Arroyo, I chose to become your mentor. To offer you the same things I did my children. The same lessons."

"I'm my—"

"That argument doesn't work on me any better than it does Sorcha."

"Because she's just like you."

"And you're a bit of all of us." Malcolm wobbled on his feet. Shock and fatigue intermingling. "Why do you think you've seen me, Sorcha, and your therapist? Because we represent different parts of you."

"I heard him— my father." His voice broke as he made that damning admission. "I listened to him. Did what he said to do."

"You did what was logical to get out of that cuff."

"I gave in," he insisted. "I gave into him."

"And if you hadn't? What then?"

He frowned.

"I'd still be in that basement."

"And your mother and sister would be left to fight a man with an axe." Ian folded his arms across his chest. "So, tell me, is listening to your father telling you what you needed to do worth their lives?"

"Of course, it is. It's just..."

"Malcolm..." Ian came forward to stand in front of him. "I'd do whatever I had to if my family was in danger."

"I'm not a killer."

"You don't have to kill him. You just have to stop him."

"How? How do I stop him? I don't have a weapon."

"Use what you know about Watkins to stop him."

Malcolm's brow creased.

"His grandparents locked him in a wardrobe..."

Ian nodded. "And what works in place of that?"

Malcolm released a shaky breath as his gaze shifted towards where an empty trunk sat.

"A box."

"Fight smarter," he heard again. "Not harder."


	26. Chapter 26

"_Your father was going to kill you_."

Those words silenced the static. Even the dark things that taunted and jeered at him seemed content with letting someone else torment him for a while.

Only his father refused to allow Watkins the privilege of dominating his mind. Malcolm turned his head away in an attempt to block him out.

To no avail.

Nothing ever silenced his father's voice.

"_I gotta admit that those words, taken out of context sound, uh, rather bad,_" his father admitted as he stood over him. "_I assure you, though, that once you remember the entire situation that you will understand why I told him that_."

Malcolm didn't believe him.

Why should he?

Everything his father ever told him was a lie.

"_Not everything_," his father countered. "_I did, uh, tell you how to escape from that cuff. Course, I also told you to kill John. But, well, you_." His low chuckle caused Malcolm's already frayed nerves to snap further. "_Well, we'll, uh, just say you're a work in progress_."

Malcolm went to deny those words but a voice calling his name snagged his attention.

Sorcha?

His brow furrowed.

How? She wasn't there with him.

Not that he could exactly say where _there_ was.

His memories got a bit fuzzy after his conversation with Ian Corbin.

He remembered hitting Watkins in the back before locking him in the trunk.

His mother and Ainsley hugging him.

His mother asking him if he killed Watkins.

Gil grabbing him in a gentle hug when his knees buckled.

Dani and JT standing over him before going to arrest Watkins on Gil's order.

Sorcha combing her fingers through his hair and softly humming as the paramedics examined him.

Being loaded into an ambul...

_Aha, the hospital_, he realized. _Of course_.

Given the amount of blood he likely lost, dehydration, mental state, and fractured thumb?

No way was he getting out of a trip to the hospital.

His mother and Gil would have insisted on it.

Sorcha, Ainsley and Dani would have seen to it.

Malcolm found himself wondering if Sorcha had them take him to the hospital where her mother still worked part-time as a nurse.

It was likely.

_More than likely_, he realized as Sorcha started to sing quietly. Malcolm floated between a state of conscious and unconscious, comforted by the soft cadence of her voice, and the feel of her warm hand atop his.

The words washed over him, brought desperately needed comfort to his ravaged mind and body.

As they had when he heard them in the playroom his father and John Watkins used to torture their victims. Only this time he wasn't hallucinating Sorcha or her father, Ian, singing them.

"_Here comes the sun_..." Her thumb lightly traced the back of his hand. Stimulating, soothing, seeking comfort as much as giving it. "_And I say, it's all right_..."

Everything inside him shifted. His lingering panic and lethargy eased. His breathing became less tight. Even the dark things slithered back to the depths of his mind.

Taking Watkins and his father with them.

For the moment, everything in the world was alright.

_He_ was alright.

_Well, moderately alright_, he amended as her fingers stroked his face, slid into the hair at his temple, traced the curve of his ear.

He'd never be completely fine.

Not that _she'd_ believe him.

She hadn't any of the other times he told her he couldn't be fixed.

"I can tell you're awake."

His lips inched up into a smile.

"Didn't want you to stop singing."

"I'll never stop singing for you."

"Promise?"

Her lips whispered over his.

A bare meeting of flesh that left him wanting more but unable to take more because of his injuries.

"Promise." Her lips brushed his as she spoke. "I will never stop singing for you."

"I heard you," he told her. "Saw you. You and your father."

"Did we tell you to fight smarter, not harder?"

"You implanted those words in my head in case something like this ever happened, didn't you?"

"I did, yes," she admitted without shame or reservation. "It's also why I sing whenever you start to have a night terror or disassociate."

"Because it works."

"Yes." That haunting scent of hers wrapped around him, teasing him, taunting him, tempting him. "Mal..." Her sigh drifted over his face. "What were you thinking? Going after Watkins on your own..."

The same words he spoke to her when she had been the one lying in the hospital bed after a serial killer almost took her life. His belly cramped as the memory of Owen Shannon's lifeless eyes staring up at him flittered across his visual field.

"I should have waited for backup."

"Yes, you should have. Dammit..." Her voice broke. His only clue to her emotional state. Which was his fault. He put her in that state when he chose to go after Watkins. "Malcolm, we might have lost you if we hadn't figured out where Watkins took you."

"You didn't lose me."

She harrumphed. "Beside the point, you idiot."

He opened his eyes to look at her. The eyes that stared back at him were red-rimmed, haunted, and reflected the pain licking at his insides.

How long had Watkins held him in that playroom?

He had no clue.

"How long was I..."

He swallowed the rest of his words. Not that he needed to worry. Sorcha understood what he was asking.

"He had you for about fifteen hours."

"Fifteen hours." That explained why fatigue haunted her face. "It felt like much longer."

"It was forever to those of us trying to find you, you danger prone dumbass."

He didn't take her caustic words to heart. He put her — and everyone else — through hell.

He put himself through hell, too.

"How did you figure out where he was holding me?"

"Gil went to see your father. He gave us the clue we needed to figure out where you were."

"Did you?" His hand spasmed with the force of the emotion that rolled through him at the thought of her standing face-to-face with his father while he was locked away in some basement. "Did you go see my father with him?"

"I listened to the conversation to determine when and where your father might be lying or telling the truth."

Her words rang true. She refused to meet his eyes, however. A clear sign she was not being completely truthful with him.

"You confronted my father, didn't you?"

"Gil wouldn't let me talk to your father."

"But you have, haven't you?"

She glowered at him.

"Profiling isn't allowed, Malcolm. We agreed on that years ago."

"You also promised to never keep things from me."

Now she glared at him.

"Also not fair to remind me of things like that when you broke your promise about not doing anything stupid."

Malcom grimaced. She had him there.

"I'm sorry." He was. More than he could express. His impulsivity in finding Watkins led directly to Owen Shannon's death. "I didn't mean to break my promise."

"It's a wonder Gil doesn't drink more after the hell we've put him through the last three months."

"We haven't caused him that many problems."

"Mal, you were sitting by my hospital bed after I was almost killed by a serial killer three months ago." She indicated his hospital room with a wave of her hand. "Now, I'm sitting beside yours after you were almost killed by one. We're a pair of dumbasses. Admit it."

"Think we need to find hobbies that are less painful."

"And here I thought you enjoyed pain."

"Not this much," he said as the wound in his chest twinged. "I expect Gil has already put me on leave."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Second you get a hint of a murder case you'll be out the door."

"I promise to not go anywhere until I've healed from the knife wound."

It was the only concession he was willing to make. It was enough to his way of thinking. He could profile with a broken thumb. Profusely bleeding while he chased a suspect?

Not such a good thing.

Even he had to admit that.

"You're also going to be seeing Gabrielle twice a week until you heal." The set to her jaw told him there was no negotiating with her on that. "You need to process what happened and to deal with it in a way that is opposite of how you usually do."

"Sorch—"

"It's either you agree to willingly go to therapy and let me take care of you or you're going to your mother's so _she_ can take care of you."

He rolled his eyes.

"As if I'm going to pick _that_ option."

She pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Told your mother you'd see things my way."

"Oh?" He shot her a suspicious look. "What else did you tell my mother?"

"That you like it when I wear a naughty nurse costume."

Embarrassed heat filled his cheeks.

"Not something I wanted my mother to know."

She slanted a look at him.

"Kinda like you didn't want me to know about the charm bracelet you bought me?"

"You found it?"

"When I was checking your coat for anything that might give us a clue."

He glanced at her wrist, hoping to see the charm bracelet circling it. He frowned when he saw her wrist was naked.

"Why aren't you wearing it?"

"Because, you dope," she said with a roll of her eyes. "I want _you_ to fasten it around my wrist." She slid her hand around his non-bandaged one. "Like you did the other one."

Malcolm indicated his bandaged hand.

"I don't see myself able to do that anytime soon."

"Then I'll wait." She stifled a yawn with her hand. "Gives us something to look forward to once your home."

"Why don't you get some sleep?"

She rest her head on his shoulder. "I'll be okay."

"Don't be stubborn."

"That's funny coming from a brick wall." Her eyelids fluttered closed. "You sleep, too. You need it if you want to heal."

"I will."

He stayed awake while Sorcha slept, though, kept watch in the dim light.

Just like he did when she was the one in the hospital bed.

Too afraid if he slept that he'd wake to find her gone.

And himself back in that underground torture room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all, and goodbye! This is the end of the road for this particular story. Reason for that is I'm a symbolic writer and I thought the parallel of them both surviving attacks by serial killers was a good way to end this story. Never fear, there are more stories to come!
> 
> I want to send a special thank you to everyone for all their lovely comments! Your support helped turn a little story into something I'm deeply proud of. Thank you all so much!
> 
> Take care!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all, and welcome! So, I just started watching this show and didn’t expect to do anything but enjoy the first couple of episodes. And then this plot bunny hit and wouldn’t let go. I don’t know if there will be more to this or not...
> 
> This is set somewhere after the episodes that have aired, obviously so it’s a bit of a “in the future” piece. 
> 
> Please, if you like this piece, kudo it!


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